THE   DRAMAS 


OF 


VICTOR    HUGO 


THE   TWINS  AMY   ROBSART 

TORQUEiVlADA 


HOLLAND    PAPER    EDITION 


OF  WHICH  THERE  HAVE  BEEN  PRINTED 


1000    COPIES 


NoJ^6 


NATIONAL    EDITION 


VICTOR    HUGO 


DRAMAS 

r  ^"3 


THE   TWINS  AMY   ROBSART 

TORQUEMADA 


TRANSLATED    BY 


G.  BURNHAM 


) 


PHILADELPHIA:   GEORGE  BARRIE  &  SON 


COPYRIGHTED,    1 896,    BY    G.    B.    &    SON 


THE  TWINS 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


PAGB 

The  Twins 5 

Notes 65 

Translator's  Note  to  The  Twins 66 


Amy  Robsart 67 

Note  to  Amy  Robsart 152 


Torqiiemada 153 

"  Second  Part 195 

Note  to  Torquemada 238 


,'/,■./,./ 


PREFACE 

8HIV/T  HHT 


BY    THE     EDITORS 

The  drama  contained  m  ttelsiiwing  ^^^3l3Si  w^DAitten  in  1839,  between  Riiy 
Bias  and  the  Burgraves,  unfortunately  was  never  completed.  The  author  wrote  but  two 
comple$ooaQt6;^ito^hjs6kq^#,9n|ifiilj^«<Jo,  ffej^ge^jf  ^j)p}^,jypiy^g^^  ^i^t  ^j^^^^s^lj^  acts  as 
well  are  unfinished.  The  first  act,  whicH^RHStjpJnsnnearly  nine  hundred  lines,  would  necessarily 
have  been  abridged  and  condensed  by  the  poet.  Victor  Hugo  had  a  hail:a&i<&&  ^©ginning  one 
of  his  ^Si'kV'  Vf  ^vi-ft|pll  ^'i^'  r¥toi  t!!PJ[rig(Iiffidxisa4istii}iaqi$«9ginaj<joj^af  tJM  Sf^jji^qW^^  supera- 
bundanc1^oVmmu\Tlie'tI?l?'an(f"ai'!amf'=a^-8^^ 

revise,  simplifying,  rectifying,  modifying.  We  have  here  only  thfe  ^r°t^  ^'k'i^fi',  something 
analogous  to  the  "first  proof"  of  one  of  Rembrandt's  eaiiJ{-?6'rt^'^lTRfH9ii^ali^y  connoisseur 
prefers  to  the  f.uk^'m^r&sxd^f'^  t^h^Rmmr^M'^k^m^^'mil^hnd  look  on  at  the 

creation  of  a  chef-d'  ceuvre. 

7 


THE  TWINS 


,^^:       ACT  SECOND      SCENE   1 

THE    MASK    (on   his  knccs,   with  liis   l:i'  '-    (iirned   toward  the   tire-phice   whence  the  song 

seen  I-  to  cuine  i. 

O  come ! 

(The  j.Iale  al  the  had  .-I"  tlie  lire-place  turns  slowly  upon  itself,  liWe  a  door.     A  ray  of  light 
shines  through  the  <i|.enini,',  upon  which  the  Mask  gazes  steadfastly  as  if  fascinated,  saying 
in  a  low  voice:) 
(.)h  !  come,  come  now  I 

(A  wunian  dressed  in  white  appears  in  ihe  opening.     It  is  Ahx.) 


PREFACE 

BY    THE     EDITORS 

The  drama  contained  in  the  following  pages,  which  was  written  in  1839,  between  Ruy 
Bias  and  the  Burgraves,  unfortunately  was  never  completed.  The  author  wrote  but  two 
complete  acts ;  the  third  is  unfinished.  Indeed  it  may  well  be  said  that  the  first  two  acts  as 
well  are  unfinished.  The  first  act,  which  contains  nearly  nine  hundred  lines,  would  necessarily 
have  been  abridged  and  condensed  by  the  poet.  Victor  Hugo  had  a  habit  of  beginning  one 
of  his  works  by  giving  a  free  rein  to  his  inexhaustible  imagination  ;  the  result  was  a  supera- 
bundance of  minute  details  and  of  minor  developments  of  the  plot,  which  he  would  afterward 
revise,  simplifying,  rectifying,  modifying.  We  have  here  only  the  first  sketch,  something 
analogous  to  the  "first  proof"  of  one  of  Rembrandt's  eaux-fortes,  which  many  a  connoisseur 
prefers  to  the  final  impression ;  in  them  we  surprise  genius  at  work,  and  look  on  at  the 

creation  of  a  chef-d'oeuvre. 

7 


y 


DRAMATIS   PERSON/E 


THE  KING 

THE  MASK 

COMTE   JEAN   DE  CREQUl 

CARDINAL  MAZARIN 

GUILLOT-GORJU 

TAGUS 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE 

COMTE  DE  BREZE 

VICOMTE  D'EMBRUN 

MASTER  BENOIT  TREVOUX,  Lieutenant  of  Police 

M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN 

CHANDENIER 

A  CITIZEN 

A  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GUARD 

A  JAILER 

THE  QUEEN  MOTHER 
ALIX  DE   PONTHIEU 
DAME  CLAUDE 

CITIZENS,  PEASANTS,  SOLDIERS,  POLICE 


ACT   FIRST 

A  small  deserted  square  near  the  Porte  Bussy.  Two  or  three  narrow  streets  lead  into  the  square.  In  the 
background,  above  the  roofs,  can  be  seen  the  three  spires  of  Saint-Germain-des-Pres. 

As  the  curtain  rises  two  men  are  standing  near  the  front  of  the  stage ;  one  of  them,  Guillot-Gorju,  is  just 
completing  the  task  of  dressing  the  other  in  a  costume  like  his  own  ;  that  is  to  say  in  the  fantastic,  ragged 
costume  of  the  comedians  of  Callot.  The  other  has  already  donned  the  yellow  stockings,  shoes  of  ex^gerated 
proportions,  doublet  and  short-clothes  of  old  black  silk.  The  costumes  and  accessories  of  the  two  men  are 
exactly  alike,  so  much  so  that  they  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  each  other.  On  the  ground  are  the  clothes 
taken  off  by  the  one  assuming  the  disguise — clothes  of  sober  hue,  but  of  rich  material. 

A  few  steps  away  another  man,  also  dressed  as  a  Merry-Andrew,  is  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  a 
juggler's  booth,  constructed  of  poles  set  up  in  the  interstices  of  the  pavement,  covered  with  pieces  of  straw 
mattings  and  odds  and  ends  of  damask  and  other  old  cloths ;  outside  the  booth  is  a  platform  upon  trestles,  and 
inside,  a  table  with  glasses,  a  card-table,  a  large  drum,  two  dilapidated  chairs,  and  a  valise  filled  with  drugs  and 
phials. 

At  one  side  is  a  small  hand-cart.  During  the  first  three  scenes  citizens  pass  back  and  forth  across  the  stage 
at  the  rear. 


SCENE   1 

GUILLOT-GORJU,  THE   MAN,  TAGUS,  at  work  on   the  booth. 


GUILLOT-GORJU. 
Agreed.     And  now  you  are  transformed. 

(He  examines  with  satisfaction  the  man  whom  he   is 
assisting  to  disguise  himself. ) 

In  sooth  you  do  resemble  me!   't  is  mar- 
velous. 


THE  MAN. 
Dost  think  so  ?    When  will  the  lady  come  ? 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 

Toward  twilight. 

THE  MAN. 
Is  she  young? 


12 


THE   TWINS 


GUILLOT-GORJU. 
Oh,  yes  !     You  '11  think  yourself  in  luck. 

(Mysteriously.) 
When  all  is  quiet,  about  eight   o'clock  at 
night, 

(He  poinls  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  square.) 

you  '11  hear  three  blows  in  yon  dark  corner. 

(He  strikes  the  palm  of  his  hand  three  times.) 

Thus. — Then    you    must    say    aloud :     God 

ALONE    IS    MASTER.       COMPiEGNE  AND    PlERRE- 

FONDS.     With  that  she  will  appear. 

THE   MAN. 
Above  all,  keep  my  secret ! 

GUILLOT-GORJU  (protesting  with  a  gesture). 
Ah  !   my  friend,  rely  on  me  ! 

THE   MAN. 
Thou  dost  not  know  her  name? 

GUILLOT-GORJU   (continuing  to  perform  the  func- 
tions of  a  valet-de-chambre). 

I  know  it  not. 

(He  points  to  a  hovel  at  the  right.) 

In    front   of    yonder   hovel   once,   at   niglit, 
and  with  no  light,  I  saw  her. 

THE   MAN. 
'T  is  a  daring  scheme  ! 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
The  lady  's  of  high  rank  ! 

THE  MAN. 
What  motive  has  she? 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
At  that  age  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  wherever  God 
may  lead  us,  we  do  seek  occasion  to  display  the 
generous  impulses  with  which  our  hearts  are 
filled ;  we  long  to  show  our  zeal  in  every  way, 
and  so  we  seize  on  any  pretext  in  default  of 
motives.  The  first  passing  breeze  removes 
our  thin  disguise.  Do  not  alarm  her,  do  not 
raise  her  veil. 


THE  MAN. 
Knows  she  the  prisoner's  name? 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
Oh,  no !     Beside  tlie   queen  and   cardinal 
that  awe-inspiring  name  is  known  to  no  one. 

THE  MAN. 

Friend,  how  came  she  to  apply  to  you  for 
this  affair  ? 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 

We  are  renowned  for  managing  escapes.  For 
us,  high  walls  and  bolts  and  bars  are  but  child's 
play.  Schomberg  I  set  free  from  the  Bastile, 
the  Admiral  of  Castile  from  Vincennes,  Gif 
from  the  temple,  and  Lescur  from  the  old 
chateau  of  Amiens.  We  never  lack  accom- 
plices !  Thieves,  gipsies,  we  have  friends  even 
among  the  Jesuits. 

THE  MAN. 

I  may  employ  thee  if  aught  comes  of  the 

affair.     And  so,  the  lady  unsuspectingly  will 

tell  me  all  her  plans,  believing  that  she  speaks 

with  thee? 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
I  think  so. 

THE  MAN  (handing  him  a   purse   which   he  takes 
from  the  clothes  lying  on  the  ground). 

Here  are  the  hundred  louis. 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
Thanks,  my  captain. 

THE  MAN. 
Oh !    the   letter   stolen    from    the   queen's 
courier. 

(Guillot-Gorju  hands  him  a  letter  which   he  examines, 
then  carefully  bestows  in  his  pocl<et.) 

How  didst  thoH  do  it,  pray  ? 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
'T  is  very  simple  and  as  clear  as  daylight. 
Yesterday  Tagus  and  I  went  out  to  take  the 
air  upon  the  road  to  Spain.     A  gentleman 


ACT  I—SCENE  I 


13 


rode  by  and  halted  at  the  Croix-de-Berny. 
Tagus  is  no  fool ;  he  said  to  me  :  "  He  stops 
to  take  a  drink;  it  's  very  hot."  The  man 
in  fact  sat  down  beside  the  church.  Thereon 
did  Tagus  make  a  hole  in  his  valise,  whence 
came  the  letter  out  with  divers  ducats.  If  we 
had  been  seen,  't  was  a  hard  case ;  but  luckily 
the  man  set  off  again  without  suspicion. 

THE  MAN  (aside). 
On    what    trifling    accidents    the    fate    of 

"empires  depends  ! 

(Aloud.) 

Thinkst  thou  that  yonder  citizens  assembled 
on  the  square  will  readily  take  me  for  thee  ? 

GUILLOT-GORJU  (handing  him   a   surtout   of  old 
black  velvet,  and  a  great  cloak  of  yellow  mohair). 

Pardieu  !  Put  on  my  Algiers  coat  and  mohair 
cape.  You  have,  as  I  have,  a  black  beard  and 
wig.  Your  height  and  bearing  are  the  same, 
and  your  melodious  voice.  Talk  loud  and 
shout,  and  they  will  be  deceived. 

THE  MAN  (putting  on  the  surtout  and  cape). 
But  what  of  thy  man  Tagus  ? 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 

'T  is  his  instinct  to  see  everything  and  say 

naught.     Tagus  will  follow  blindly  where  you 

choose  to  lead.     Croix-Dieu  !     Yon  courtiers 

know  full  well  the  art  of  training  men  like 

dogs. 

THE  MAN. 

Retz  could  not  talk  more  shrewdly.  God, 
who  dost  govern  us,  Almighty  God  !  of  what 
avail  to  live  in  caves,  if  man  doth  sink  as  low 
in  every  point,  in  every  sense,  among  thieves 
as  among  courtiers  ? 

(To  Guillot-Gorju. ) 

Before  all  things  do  not  betray  me,  and 
return  anon  ! 

GUILLOT-GORJU  (with  theatrical  emphasis). 
My  doublet  ne'er  concealed  a  traitor's  skin  ! 


THE  MAN  (smiling). 
In  truth  thy  doublet  doth  conceal  the  skin 

but  sparingly. 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
Fear  naught ! 

(He  picks  up  from  the  ground  underneath  the  rags  an 
old  broken,  dilapidated  felt  hat,  adorned  with  a 
yellow  plume,  and  presents  it  to  the  man,  with  a 
majestic  air. ) 

Your  lordship's  hat. 

(Calling  Tagus,  who  has  been  at  work  on  the  booth 
throughout  the  scene. ) 

Tagus  !     Behold  thy  master  ! 

(Tagus  bows.) 

Obey,  be  docile.     He  is  another  I. 

(He  dismisses  Tagus  with  a  gesture.) 
(To  the  man.) 
And  do  you  set  your  mind  at  rest.     How- 
ever, I  will  not  conceal  from  you   that  I  am 
going   hence.      For  men   of  our   profession 
Paris  is  becoming  hot. 

THE   MAN. 
Damnation  !     Can   it  be,  Gorju,  that  thou 
dost  stop  half-way  on  such  a  glorious  road  ? 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
The  gentry  at  the  Chatelet  do  make  them- 
selves ridiculous.     Oh  !  by  the  way,  are  you 
a  chiromancist  ? 

THE  MAN. 

Just  a  little.     'T  is  a  noble  art. 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
Aye,  very  noble,  very  ancient  too.      The 
art  of  reading  in  the  hand  what  the  soul  hides. 
It  often  happens  that  great  ladies — very  great 
— come  hither  to  consult  me  on  the  future. 


THE   MAN  (astonished). 


Often  ? 


GUILLOT-GORJU. 


Very  often. 


THE  MAN. 


In  the  street  ? 


14 


THE   TWINS 


GUILLOT-GORJU. 

Upon  this  very  spot. 

THE   MAN. 
In  broad  daylight  ? 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
They  drop  their  veils.     I  draw  the  curtain 
close. 

(He  points  to  a  hideous  rag  hanging  on  the  poles.) 
And  then  I  improvise. 

THE  MAN. 
Come  on  !     I  '11  make  the  trial. 

GUILLOT-GORJU  (pointing  to  the  valise  filled  with 
phials). 

Here  are  the  elixirs. 

(He  opens  the  table  drawer.) 
And  ink  and  paper  if  you  choose  to  write  a 

word  or  two. 

(He  picks  up  the  clothes  left  by  the  man  upon  the 
floor,  and  makes  a  bimdle  of  them  which  he  puts 
under  his  arm,  after  selecting  an  ample  brown  cloak 
in  which  he  envelops  himself.  He  also  puts  on  the 
man's  new  felt  hat  with  waving  plumes.) 


The  hour  is  near  at  hand  at  which  the 
citizens  will  pass.  I  go.  Ah  !  now  I  think 
of  it,  I  ought  to  give  you  warning.  With  my 
name  you  have  a  chance  of  being  hanged,  my 
noble  lord. 

THE  MAN. 

Indeed  ?  And  you  with  mine,  my  friend, 
of  being  decollated. 

GUILLOT-GORJU. 
In  that  case,  God  guard  you  ! 

THE   MAN. 
As  thou  seest,  he  has  quite  a  task.     Good- 
night. 

(Exit  Guillot-Gorju.  Left  by  himself  the  man  sits 
down  upon  a  block  of  stone,  takes  from  his  pocket 
the  letter  handed  him  by  Guillot-Gorju,  and  reads  it 
with  apparent  attention  which  soon  changes  to  deep 
abstraction.  Tagus  meanwhile  is  putting  the  phials 
in  order  and  sewing  together  the  old  rags  that  make 
the  walls  of  the  booth. ) 


ACT  I— SCENE  II 


15 


SCENE    II 


THE  MAN  (alone,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  letter). 


A  fleet  in  Gascony ;  an  army  in  Piedmont ; 

agents  at  Madrid. 

( Raising  his  head. ) 

The   queen   has   projects  brewing    in   her 

mind. 

(Musing.) 

But  this  young  girl !  a  star  outside  her 
sphere,  what  part  has  she  in  this  tenebrious 
affair?  This  Mazarin  is  good  for  naught  save 
to  pollute  whatever  he  doth  touch.  No,  naught 
save  that !  How  well  these  kings  do  choose 
their  ministers  !  If  anywhere,  in  some  mean 
hovel,  there  exists  a  black-souled  varlet, 
dreaming  of  the  red  barretta  of  a  cardinal,  a 
cheating  knave,  who  licks  at  first  the  hand 
he  '11  bite  anon,  false  priest,  false  noble,  with 
a  dastard's  heart,  who  forces  king  and  people 


to  pass  through  his  sieve,  whose  mind  is  no 
more  than  a  potent  menstruum, — if  such  a 
man  there  be,  't  is  he  they  seek.  Bourbons  as 
well  as  Valois  !  To  sustain  the  people  with 
just  laws,  to  give  vitahty  to  everything,  to 
throne  and  kingdom,  they  give  o'er  the  state 
to  him,  from  top  to  bottom,  from  the  palace 
to  the  hovel,  and  make  a  chef  de  cuisine  of  a 
poisoner  ! 

(Musing,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  letter.) 

If  we  succeed,   certes,  we  may  obtain  from 

Spain  Franche-Comte,  without  war,  without  a 

single  battle. 

( He  continues  his  perusal  of  the  letter  with  an  air  of 
abstraction.  Enter  at  the  back  of  the  stage  the 
Due  de  Chaulne  and  the  Comte  de  Bussy,  talking 
together  in  low  tones,  with  an  air  of  mystery ;  they 
do  not  see  the  man  and  are  not  seen  by  him.) 


i6 


THE   TWINS 


SCENE   III 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE,  COMTE  DE  BUSSY,  both  in  street  costume.     In  a  corner  of  the  stage,  THE  MAN. 

TAGUS,  still  in  the  booth. 


COMTE   DE   BUSSY. 
Oh  !  't  is  a  curious  tale,  upon  my  word.     It 
was  two  years  before  the  king  was  born. 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE. 
In  thirty-six  ? 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY. 
E'en  so.  There  is  near  Compiegne  an  old 
chateau  built  to  deceive  some  stern  duenna  or 
some  jealous  husband,  in  a  lover's  interest, 
so  cunningly  the  artist  multiplied  mysterious 
passages  and  secret  doors,  to  give  free  play  to 
subterranean  intrigues ! 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE. 
I  know  the  place,  my  friend  !  Plessis-les- 
Rois.  A  ruined  manor-house,  deep-hidden  in 
the  woods,  which,  so  't  is  said,  communicates 
with  the  chateau  of  Compiegne  by  a  long 
passage  underground,  constructed  during  the 
last  reign,  then  filled,  and  then  by  Mazarin 
reopened.  The  queen  and  he,  alone,  have 
access  to  the  passage.  There,  by  virtue  of  a 
dispensation  got  from  Rome,  the  secret  mar- 
riage that  doth  bind  her  to  that  man  was 
celebrated.  'T  is  deserted,  so  that  they  can 
talk  there  undisturbed.  Sometimes,  they  say, 
they  hie  them  there  to  quarrel. 

COMTE   DE  BUSSY. 
True.      At    the    time    of    which    I   speak 
there  was  at  Compiegne  a  nobleman,  whose 


name   I    fear   is   now   extinct,   one   Jean   de 
Crequi. 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE. 
Pardieu  !  he  was  a  pretty  fellow  ! 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY. 

On  the  other  hand  the  garrison  at  Plessis 
consisted  of  a  sweet  and  lovely  dame  who 
lived  in  strict  retirement.  Jean  knew  the 
approaches  to  the  manor,  and  by  stratagem, 
love  aiding,  for  he  was  no  fool,  he  forced  an 
entrance  one  fine  evening  to  the  fair  one's 
citadel,  and  took  her  captive  by  assault. 
Later  he  learned,  how  't  was  I  hardly  knew, 
that  the  same  fair  one  was  his  brother's  wife. 
I  give  thee  facts,  make  of  them  what  you 
will.  For  better  or  for  worse,  it  is  the  fact 
that,  nine  months  from  that  time,  a  child 
was  born,  a  daughter,  born  legitiiiiately  and 
justifiably,  the  lady  being  duly  married. 
But  Comte  Jean — thou  seest,  't  is  a  delicate 
affair. 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE. 

The  fair  one's  name  ? 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY. 
Alix  de  Ponthieu.     Methinks  that  she  is  now 
an  orphan. 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE. 
Where  's  her  home  ? 


ACT  I—SCENE  HI 


17 


COMTE  DE  BUSSY. 
She  lives  a   hermit's  life,    no   one  knows 
where.     'T  is  a  rare  thing  at  seventeen. 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE. 
And  is  she  beautiful  ? 

COMTE   DE   BUSSY. 
As  day.      Thenceforth  Jean's  only  passion 
was  that  child.     His  fate  is  ancient  history". 
Ten  years  since  he  vanished  from  the  scene, 
exiled  for  a  conspiracy  ... 


DUC  DE  CHAULNE. 
Ah !  I  remember ;  Mazarin  proscribed  him, 
and  the  Luynes  had  his  property. 

COMTE   DE   BUSSY. 

And,  if  he  were  to  reappear  to-morrow,  the 

Greve  would  have  his  head. 

(The  two  gentlemen  walk  on,  talking,  and  leave  the 
stage.  Some  moments  since  Tagus  has  drawn  near 
to  the  man  trj'ing  in  vain  to  attract  his  attention ; 
at  last  he  decides  to  accost  him.) 


THE   TWINS 


SCENE   IV 

THE  MAN,  TAGUS;  afterward,  CITIZENS,  men  and  women. 


Master  ! 

Well? 


TAGUS. 
THE  MAN. 


TAGUS. 
Shall  I  put  everything  in  readiness  ? 


THE  MAN. 


Aye. 


TAGUS. 

Soon  the  citizens  will  come,  thou  knowest, 

from  the  March6  Saint-Germain.     So  lend  a 

hand,  I  prithee. 

(The  man  assists  him  to  lift  the  great  drum  upon  the 
platform.) 

THE  MAN. 

Beat  the  drum. 

(Tagus  begins  to  beat  the  drum.  A  few  persons  appear 
at  the  rear  of  the  stage.  After  a  few  lusty  blows 
Tagus  stops,  all  out  of  breath.) 

THE  MAN  (leaning  against  the  platform,  musing). 

A  woman  in  the  plot !    Mysterious  ! 

(He  turns  to  Tagus.) 
Tell  me,  art  thou  the  man  to  do  a  kindly 
deed  one  of  these  days  ? 

TAGUS. 
We  should  be  fools,  my  master.  Do  what 
we  may,  a  kindly  deed,  performed  by  men 
like  us,  casts  an  uncertain  light,  and  ends  too 
often  in  a  slip-noose.  Nor  do  I  see  that  much 
is  to  be  gained  by  it.  However,  do  your  will ! 
So  long  as  I  have  food  to  eat,  I  am  content. 


THE  MAN. 
Who  thinkst  thou  that  I  am  ? 

TAGUS. 
A  thief.     To  me  it  matters  little  ! 

THE   MAN. 
Tagus,  knowest  thou  that,  living  as  we  do, 
some  day  we  shall  be  strung  up  by  our  necks? 
We  're  outlaws,  brother  ! 

TAGUS  (seizing  the  drum-stick  once  more). 

Let  us  not  think  of  it  ! 

( He  beats  the  drum  with  great  violence.  A  considera- 
ble crowd  gathers  around  the  booth,  women,  chil- 
dren, a  few  old  men,  and  innumerable  beggars.) 

TAGUS   (mounted  on  the  platform,  and  .shouting  at 
the  top  of  his  lungs). 

Hola !  all  ye  who  'd  lead  a  calm  and  peace- 
ful life  in  this  great  city,  peasants  and  bour- 
geois, come  this  way  !  come,  nobleman  and 
page  !  Who  longs  for  health  ?  who  seeks  good 
luck  ?  we  have  them  both  to  sell.  Who  does 
not  know  that  pride,  vice,  love  and  fever, 
lawyers  and  nurses,  ribald  talk  and  foolish 
visions,  interrupt  the  action  of  the  constella- 
tions ?  Come  to  us  !  By  our  aid  every  man 
may  trim  his  sails  for  happiness  !  Friends, 
nothing  is  so  rare  as  a  reliable  astrologer. 
Manilas  is  obscure,  Firmique  is  venturesome, 
the  Arabian's  wild  talk  is  odious,  Jtinctin 
would  tell  you  everything,  and  Spina  nothing, 
Cardan  went  all  astray  touching  the  King  of 
England,  Pontan  is  too  Roman,  Argolus  too 


ACT  I— SCENE  IV 


19 


Greek,    and    Lconice   and    IV-zel    follow   on 
behind. 

(With  .1  tremendous  accession  of  energy.) 
To  find  the  hidden  clue  to  nature's 
secrets,  draw  your  horoscopes  and  tell  your 
fortunes,  to  disclo.se  to  all  the  future,  like 
Apollo,  by  the  air,  the  earth,  the  water,  by 
dead  bodies,  to  bring  down  the  manna  and 
the  dew  from  heaven,  to  fashion  Ormuzd,  wipe 
out  Ahrimanes,  cause  a  baron's  wife  to  be 
enamored  of  a  beggar,  and  recite  the  verses 
of  the  famous  Scarron  ;  to  foretell  to  every- 
one complete  success,  for  hyleg,  antiste  and 
triplicity,  to  change  copper  into  gold  before 
your  very  eyes  !  to  sell  for  a  mere  song 
nn'raculous  phylacteries !  plumbago,  storax, 
sublimate  and  mithridate;  to  guess  a  day, 
a  date,  an  epoch,  nobody,  messieurs,  no, 
nobody  's  the  equal  of  the  great  Guillot- 
Gorju,  my  master,  here  before  you  !  Jean 
Triteme  is  good  for  nothing  but  to  kiss  his 
slipper.  Ptolemy  's  a  fool,  and  Calchas  is  a 
knave  ! 

(Sensation  among  the  bystanders.  Tagus,  out  of 
breath,  steps  down  from  the  platform,  and  speaks  in 
an  undertone  to  the  man.) 

'T  is  thy  turn,  master.  I  will  go  mean- 
while, and  see  what  yonder  clowns  have  in 
their  pockets. 

THE   MAN. 
Look  you  ! 

(He  steps  npon  the  platform.  While  he  is  haranguing 
Tagus  circulates  among  the  spectators,  and  feels 
deftly  in  their  pocl;ets,  taking  advantage  of  their 
close  observation  of  the  booth. ) 

THE  MAN  (with  the  tone  and  accent  of  an  empiric). 
Gossips,  I  have  traveled  far  o'er  land  and 
water  I  atlases,  world-maps  and  charts  make 
mention  of  no  country  that  I  have  not  sought 
and  found,  roamed  over  and  surveyed,  and 
eke  described  ! 

(Tagus,  having  finished  his  first  round,  steps  upon  the 
platform,  and,  taking  shelter  behind  his  cloak,  shows 
the  man  a  handful  of  small  coins.) 


I  TAGUS   (in  an  undertone). 

They  've  naught  but  sous  and  liards,  master  ! 

(Turning  indignantly  toward  the  audience.) 

Canaille  ! 

(He  steps  down  again  and  recommences  his  explora- 
tions.) 

THE    MAN   (continuing).    ' 

The  Indies  I  have  seen,  and  China,  and  the 
great  wall.  I  've  seen  the  King  of  Algiers, 
seated  in  his  arm-chair,  laugh  and  play  at 
dice.  Two  beautiful  embroidered  birds  sit  on 
the  chair-back,  the  gorgeous  colors  of  their 
pluinage  mingling  with  the  fringe. 

TAGUS  (emptying  a  pocket  with  each  hand). 
One  drinks,  the  other  eats. 

(Aside.) 
Still  naught  but  sous  I 

THE  MAN  (taking  a  phial   and  showing   it   to  the 
spectators). 

Observe  !  a  love  elixir  ! 

(To  a  rag-picker.) 

Were  you  at  Vienna,  at  the  late  court  festi- 
val, madame  ? 

TAGUS. 

We  were  the  darlings  of  Vienna  !    We  were 

there  I 

THE   MAN. 

The  Infante,  as  I  now  remember,  was, 
upon  my  word,  adorable  in  Hebe's  guise. 
She  wore  a  skirt  of  flaming  silk  of  Tours  ;  she 
went  and  came  and  laughed  and  filled  the 
glasses  round,  and  did  most  gallantly  befud- 
dle an  Olympus  of  kings,  dukes  and  arch- 
dukes, with  a  wine  that  was  not  taken  from 
the  aqueducts  ! 

(He  displays  his  phials  to  the  crowd.) 

Elixirs  for  the  teeth,  for  fever  and  for 
syncope  ! 

TAGUS  (in  falsetto). 

Who  '11  have  a  flagon  ?  Who  will  have  his 
horoscope  ? 


20 


THE   TWINS 


THE  MAN. 
I  come  from  Portugal  !  They  have  a 
youthful  king — he  's  but  sixteen — and  of  a 
joyous  humor,  by  my  faith !  When  the 
Alcalde  Obregon,  now  in  disgrace,  asked  him 
this  question:  "How  are  we  to  rid  your 
Grace  of  Count  Valverde  ?"  he  said  :  "  By 
killing  him  !"  and  said  it  with  the  glee  befit- 
ting that  sweet  age. 

( In  a  melancholy  tone. ) 

O  youth  !   O  springtime  !    O  the  azure  sky  ! 

(To  the  crowd.) 
Who  '11  have  the  oil  of  beauty? 

(Leaning  over  toward  his  audience.) 
Lily?  jasmine?  almond?  rose? 

TAGU.S  (with  energy). 

Speak  out !  !  ! 

( While  the  spectators  crowd  around  the  platform, 
selecting,  purchasing  and  paying,  Tagus  takes  one 
of  the  citizens  aside  and  leads  him  to  the  front  of 
the  stage  by  one  of  the  huge  buttons  on  his  coat.) 

TAGUS  (confidentially,  to  the  citizen). 

My    friend  !     my   master   is   a  sorcerer  so 

skillful  that  .   .   . 

(He  points  into  the  air  with  his  finger,  as  if  to  call  his 
attention  to  some  object  far  away  among  the  clouds.) 

D'  ye  see  yon  bird  ? 

THE  CITIZEN  (looking  up). 
No. 

TAGUS. 

Even  so ;  my  master,  if  it  pleases  him,  will 

guide  his  flight  according  to  the  straight,  the 

parallel  or  oblique  sphere. 

(He  takes  the  citizen's  purse  from  one  of  the  pockets 
of  his  waistcoat.) 

THE  CITIZEN. 
I  do  not  see  the  bird. 

TAGUS. 
Look.     Yonder  in  the  sky  ! 

(He  takes  his  watch  from  the  other  pocket.) 


THE  CITIZEN  (looking  up). 


No. 


TAGUS. 

You  must  have  poor  eyes,  my  man. 

(Great  tumult  among  the  crowd.  Enter  a  number  of 
police  officials,  archers,  gendarmes,  exempts,  footmen 
of  the  watch  and  provostry,  led  by  a  district  captain. 
The  crowd  makes  way.     Tagus  seems  ill  at  ease.) 

THE  CAPTAIN  (in  a  loud  voice). 
Which  of  the  villains  screeching  yonder  is 
Guillot-Gorju  ? 


THE  MAN. 


L 


THE  CAPTAIN. 
Thou  ?     Then  we  arrest  thee,  knave  ! 

THE  MAN  (unmoved). 

Aha !     messieurs,    you    might    speak    more 

politely. 

THE  CAPTAIN   (to  Tagus). 

Thou,  begone ! 

(Three  archers   suiTound  Tagus  and   drag  him   away 
struggling.) 

THE   MAN. 
My  servant  too  !     Why  ?     How  ? 

THE  CAPTAIN. 

Monsieur  Trevoux,  Lieutenant   of    Police, 

intends  to  question  thee  himself  and  he  can 

tell  thee.     He  is  close  upon  us.     Here  he  is. 

(Enters  Master  Benoit  Trevoux,  Lieutenant  of  Police, 
dressed  in  black,  with  a  guard  of  sergeants. ) 

THE  MAN  (still  upon  the  platform,  to  the  crowd). 

Gossips,  be  off.    Monsieur  le  Lieutenant  de 

Police  Trevoux  coines  hither   to  consult  me 

and  to  offer  me  his  custom.     \St  have  matters 

of  high  import  to  discuss. 

(He  steps  down   from  the  platform,  and   .salutes  the 
Lieutenant  of  Police,  then  turns  to  the  archers.) 

Soldiers  !  introduce  Monsieur  le  Lieutenant 
de  Police,  and  close  the  doors. 

( He  draws  aside  the  old  rags  which  serve  the  purpose 
of  a  curtain.  Benoit  Trevoux  enters  the  booth.  The 
soldiers  disperse  the  crowd.) 


ACT  I— SCENE   V 


21 


SCENE  V 


THE  MAN,  MASTER  BENOIT  TREVOUX. 


(Two  or  three  exempts  inside  the  booth ;  outside,  the 
police  officers,  stationed  at  the  entrances  to  the 
square.) 

THE   MAN   (eyeing  the  Lieutenant  of  Police  from 
head  to  foot). 

Are  you  mad,  monsieur? 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (dumfounded). 
A  civil  question  that ! 

THE   MAN. 
Monsieur  le  Lieutenant  de  Police  et  de  ville, 

( Pointing  to  the  archers. ) 

be  pleased  to  send  away  these  officers. 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
They  are  well  placed. 

THE  MAN  (courteously). 
Your  pardon.     They  are  in   the  way  and 
they  are  ugly.     Well  I  know  that  one  must 
take   one's  fortune  as  it  comes.      But  pray, 
monsieur,  what  will  my  capture  profit  you  ? 

M\STER  TREVOUX. 
The  king  will  be  obliged  to  me  therefor. 

THE   MAN. 
Nay,  not  to  you,  dear  sir.      Monsieur  le 
Cardinal  will  take  unto  himself  the  honor. 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
He  says  tnie,  the  knave  ! 

THE  MAN. 
Now,  Mazarin  detests  you.     He  it  is  you 
serve  thereby,  and  not  yourself.    . 


MASTER  TREVOUX. 

It  may  be  so.  However,  I  perform  my 
duty.  That  's  enough.  I  must  maintain 
good  order,  succor  honest  citizens,  guard 
every  door,  and  have  an  eye  to  every  purse, 
eradicate  thieves,  beggars  and  brigands,  and 
purge  the  public  squares  of  bandits  of  thy 
kidney ! 

THE   MAN. 

These  be  wild  words  ! 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
Go  to  !  to  prison,  knave  ! 

THE  MAN. 
You  are  a  vandal ! 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
To  the  Chatelet ! 

THE  MAN. 
So  be  it  !  I  will  cause  a  pretty  scandal  to 
avenge  myself.  Consider,  ere  you  drive  me 
to  extremities,  that  I,  Guillot-Gorju,  know 
everything,  see  everything.  For  fifteen  years 
have  I  lived,  a  man  without  fear  and  without 
reproach,  iny  eyes  deep  in  your  secrets  .  .  . 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
And  thy  hands  deep  in  our  pockets.     Out 
upon  thee,  gallows-bird  !   thou  shalt  be  tried. 

THE   MAN. 
Such   is   your   pleasure  ?     Good  !  in   open 
court,  before  the  Chatelet,  will  I  cry  out  upon 


22 


THE   TWINS 


the  housetops,  'mid  a  hundred  epigrams,  all 
that  your  wives  are  doing  day  and  night. 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
Thou 'It  be  convicted;  thou  wilt  be  con- 
demned ! 

THE   MAN. 

Look  you,  I  '11  say  that  you  are  .   .  . 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
Gorju  ! 

THE   MAN. 
Proof  in  hand ! 

(Lowering  his  voice.) 

You  may  be  made  to  suffer  for  three  rubies 
filched  from  the  queen's  treasure  chest. 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
The  thieves  we  've   caught  have  all  been 
hanged. 

THE  MAN  (in  Tr^voux's  ear). 

The  rubies  that  you  've  caught  have  never 
been  returned. 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (aside). 
The  devil ! 

(Aloud.) 
Prithee  what  's  thy  proof  .   .   . 


THE  MAN. 


Of  what  ? 


MASTER  TREVOUX. 
Of  this  thou  dost  advance. 

THE  MAN  (with  a  majestic  smile). 
I  never  dwell  on  matters  of  this  sort ;  't  is 
execrable  taste.     I  leave  such  pedantry,  for 
my  part,  to  the  king's  attorney. 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (to  the  exempts). 
Stand  you  back  a  little. 

(To  the  man.) 

Let  US  talk  more  at  our  ease.     How  dost 

thou  know  this  ? 

THE  MAN. 
'Faith  .   .   . 


MASTER  TREVOUX   (with  interest). 
Pray  take  a  chair. 

THE  MAN   (seating  himself). 

I   know  it,   monsieur,  as  I  know  about  a 

certain  plot  .  .   . 

( Master  Tr^voux  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  dismisses 
the  exempts,  who  leave  the  booth.) 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (anxiously). 
A  plot !  good  fellow,  you  astonish  me  ! 

THE  MAN  (unmoved). 
Li  which  you  are  concerned. 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (with  increasing  alarm). 

I!   no! 

THE  MAN. 

'T  is  a  great  mystery.     A  prisoner  .   .  . 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (hastily). 
Hold  thy  peace  ! 

THE   MAN. 
So  be  it;    I  am  well  content  to  hold  my 
peace. 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
No,  speak. 

THE   MAN. 
To  what  end  did  you  take  that  prisoner  one 
day  by  Compiegne,  where  the  court  was  then 
in  residence  ? 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
Pure  chance ! 

THE   MAN. 
But   all    things   go   to  show  that   you  had 
secret   dreams   of  a  strange   meeting.     For, 
albeit  Mazarin  's  the  object  of  your  scheming, 
the  explosion  may  perchance  reach  higher. 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
Hush  !     How  know  you  that  ? 

(Aside.) 
This  man  is  to  be  feared. 


ACT  I— SCENE   V 


23 


THE   MAN. 

I  know  what  you  all  say  in  bed,  at  table 

and  at  church. 

(He  takes  from  his  pocket  the  letter  handed  him  by 
Guillot-Gorju. ) 

Look   at   this   letter.     Do    you   know   the 
hand  ? 

MASTER  TREVOUX    (glancing  at  the   letter  and 
turning  pale). 

I  do  not  know  it. 


THE   MAN. 


Yes,  you  do. 


MASTER  TREVOUX  (aside). 
It  is  the  queen's  ! 

THE  MAN  (smihng). 
Go  to  !  fear  not ;    what  holds  you  back  ? 
Say  boldly,  as  I  do:   "It  is  the  queen's!" 
Examine  the  address. 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (reading). 
"To  the  King  of  Spain,  my  brother." 

(Aside.) 
Methinks  this  man  must  be  the  very  devil. 

THE   MAN. 
Read  it,  pray. 

( He  hands  the  letter  to  Trevou.x.) 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
"  I  have  received  an  onyx  from   the  Pope, 
whereon  is  graven  a  monk's  head.     I  have 
therewith  made  me  a  ring  which  I  wear  con- 
stantly ..." 

THE   MAN. 
Read  on. 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (reading). 
"  I  count  upon   your  kindly  succor.     To 
insure  success  to  our  designs,  a  squadron  in 
the  Gulf  of  Gascony,  an  army  in  Savoy  will 
be  enough." 


THE   MAN. 


Read  on. 


MASTER  TREVOUX  (whose  voice  becomes  more 
and  more  agitated). 

"No  one  hath  aught  to  say  to  me  touch- 
ing the  prisoner.  But  Mazarin  hath  said,  in 
bitter  wrath,  that  rather  than  that  child  should 
reappear,  he  would  himself,  with  his  own  hand, 
although  a  priest,  and  old  and  ill,  put  him  to 
death  .  .   ." 

THE   MAN. 
Read  on. 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 

"  Naught   happens  as  I  'd   have   it,  but  I 

have  upon    my  side  Thoiras    and    Monsieur 

de  Souvre.     Trevoux,  Lieutenant  of  Police,  is 

with  us  .   .   ." 

( Interrupting  himself,  pale  as  death.) 
Whence  hadst  thou  this  letter? 

THE  M.\N  (replacing  the  letter  in  his  pocket). 

Bah  !  I  have  a  many  others.   If  aught  should 

befall  me,   mark   my  words,  someone   would 

publish  them,  and  then  beware  !     So  do  not 

anger  me,  but  guard  my  life. 

(Master  Tr(5voux,  as  if  a  violent  contest  were  raging  in 
his  mind,  stands  musing  for  a  few  seconds,  then 
turns  abruptly  to  him,  and  offers  his  hand.) 

MASTER  TREVOUX. 
Let  us  be  friends  ! 

THE  MAN  (taking  Tr^voux's  hand,  and  putting  on 
his  hat). 

Cinna,  't  is  my  request  to  thee.' 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (aside). 

These  charlatans  have  eyes  that  see  through 
everything  ! 

(.Aloud,  with  an  engaging  smile.) 

Tell  me,  my  friend,  art  thou  in  need  of 
money  ? 

THE   MAN. 

Truly,  my  doublet  has  a  many  gaping 
mouths  which  say  as  much,  for,  'neath  the 
ample  cloak  whose  folds  envelop  me,  the 
devil   doth   with   mocking   finger    cause   my 


24 


THE   TWINS 


linen  to  protrude  through  holes  undreamed  of 
by  the  tailor. 

( Master  Trevoux  takes  out  his  portfolio,  writes  a  few 
words  in  pencil,  tears  out  tlie  page  and  liands  it  to 
the  man.) 

Here  is  an  order  for  eight  hundred  livres 
upon  my  privy  purse,  if  thou  wilt  give  me 
all  the  names,  if  thou  'It  disclose  to  me  all 
the  state  secrets  in  thy  knowledge  ;  dost  thou 
understand  ? 

THE  MAN  (talcing  tlie  paper). 

A  thief,  it  may  be ;  but  no  spy,  my  friend. 

( He  tears  the  paper.) 

(Master  Trevoux  draws  aside  the  curtain  of  the  booth, 
and  dismisses  the  oflicers  who  have  remained  on  the 
square. ) 


MASTER  TREVOUX  (to  the  officers). 
Begone ! 

(They  obey  in  silence.  The  square  is  once  more 
deserted.  Master  Trevoux  approaches  the  man  with 
an  expansive  air.) 

Now  let  us  talk,  where  none  can  overhear. 

(Sound  of  footsteps  in  the  neighboring  street.) 

Great  Heaven  !  someone  comes  ! 

THE   MAN. 
'T  is  pity,  you  were  waxing  very  loving. 

(From  a  narrow  street  at  the  left,  opposite  to  that  taken 
by  the  officers,  a  woman  comes  into  the  square ;  she 
is  dressed  in  black  and  heavily  veiled.  She  looks 
behind  for  an  instant  with  evident  uneasiness,  as  if 
she  dreaded  being  seen,  then  rushes  hastily  into  the 
booth.) 


ACT  I— SCENE   VI 


25 


SCENE   VI 


THE  MAN,  THE  VEILED   WOMAN,   MASTER  TREVOUX. 


(As  the  woman  enters.  Master  Tr^voux  wraps  himself 
in  his  cloak  and  takes  his  seat  upon  Tagus's  stool  in 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  booth,  with  his  back  turned 
to  the  light,  like  one  who  is  not  anxious  to  be  recog- 
nized.) 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN  (to  the  man,  not  noticing 
Trdvoux). 

My  friend,  a  single  word.     Pray  look  and 
see  if  any  come  behind  me? 


THE  MAN. 


No. 


THE  VEILED  WOMAN. 
I  am  not  followed  ! 

THE  MAN. 
No,  madame  .   .   . 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN. 
'T  is  well. 

THE  MAN  (aside). 
Who  is  this  woman  ? 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN. 

Thou  dost  draw  their  horoscopes  for  all  who 

call  upon  thee  ? 

THE   MAN. 
Yes,  madame. 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN. 
'T  is  well !  in  that  great  science,  and  't  is 
that  whereof  I  stand  in  need,  the  lowlier  the 
man,  the  higher  doth  his  vision  soar.  He 
points  our  course  though  he  knows  not  our 
names.  I  come  to  seek  thy  counsel.  I  am  to 
be  pitied.     Listen  .   .   . 


(Spying  Master  Trevoux.) 
Who  is  yonder  man  ? 

THE  MAN. 
He  is  my  servant.     Have  no  fear.     Your 
hand,  so  please  you. 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN  (giving  him  her  hand). 
Look.     What  seest  thou  there  ? 

THE  MAN  (aside,  scrutinizing  a  ring  which  glistens 
on  her  hand). 

Ah  !  can  it  be  ?  the  onyx  whereon  a  monk's 
head  is  graven  !     'T  is  the  queen  ! 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN  (intensely  excited). 

Seek  and  ponder  well,  O  subtle  intellect ! 
Conceive  a  haughty  brow  bowed  down  beneath 
a  most  degrading  yoke  ! 

THE  MAN  (removing  his  hat,  and  going  to  the  cur- 
tains at  the  back  of  the  booth,  and  drawing  them 
together). 

Allow  me  to  draw  close  these  curtains  for 
your  Majesty. 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN  (turning  as  if  acted  upon 
by  electricity). 

How  canst  thou  know  me? 

THE  MAN  (unmoved). 
'T   is   your   hand    that   doth   betray   your 
Majesty. 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN. 
My  hand    that   doth   betray   me?    how,   I 
prithee? 


26 


THE   TWINS 


THE   MAN. 
By   its   beauty.     'T   is   a  royal  hand.     A 
vvliite  and  rosy  hand. 

(Aside.) 
The  ony.\  ring  was  a  great  help. 

THE  QUEEN. 
'T  is  well ;  say  on  ! 

THE  MAN. 
You  have  a  hundred  reasons  for  your  suffer- 
ing, O  queen  !  being  the  link  that  joins  two 
families  which  draw  you  constantly  in  opposite 
directions  at  the  same  time,  unable  to  shake 
off  their  yoke.  Spain  has  your  ancestors, 
and  Trance  your  progeny.  You  suffer  with 
the  vanquished  e'en  as  with  the  victors 
you  rejoice.  The  Louvre  contains  more 
poignant  sorrow  still  for  you  ;  for  you 
did  foster  him  who  now  doth  rend  you. 
Mazarin,  by  you  created,  now  doth  plot  your 
ruin.  Day  by  day  you  fall  to  pieces,  stone 
by  stone  and  noiselessly.  The  mind  of 
Mazarin  's  the  only  window  through  which 
the  king  looks.  With  that  vile  traitor's  eyes 
doth  he  view  everything,  and,  filled  with  mad 
infatuation  for  the  precious  cardinal,  he  fain 
would  wed  his  niece,  Olympe  Mancini.  You 
are  cast  aside,  your  bitter  plaints  are  laughed 
at,  and  those  joyous  feet  are  walking  o'er  the 
ruins  of  your  power.  You  would  be  revenged, 
however,  you  would  become  once  more  the 
queen  and  mother,  you  would  strive  and  strike 
and  punish ;  but  your  days  are  haunted  by 
depressing  visions,  and  your  dreams  at  night 
do  drive  the  color  from  your  cheeks. 

THE  QUEEN  (gazing  at  the  man  with  a  mixture  of 
fear,  curiosity  and  profound  wonder). 

Wretch  !  who  hath  told  you  this? 

THE   MAN. 
I  see  it.     Know,  madame,  that  in  a  little 
time   the   secrets  of  the   great  fall  down   by 


their  own  weight.     The  people  have  an  eye 
wide  open  at  the  bottom  of  your  soul. 

THE  QUEEN  (raising  her  veil). 
Then  pity  me  !  my  tears  in  very  truth  do 
scald  me.     Ere  the  month  is  past,  the  king, 
ray  son,  will    reach   his  sixteenth    year,  and 
they  will  conclude  this  shameful  marriage. 

THE  MAN  (in  an  undertone). 
At   the   same  hour  another  will  attain   his 
sixteenth  year,  madame ! 

THE  QUEEN  (turning  pale). 
Of  whom,  in  God's  name,  dost  thou  speak? 
My  friend,  you  dream. 

THE  MAN  (lowering  his  voice  more  and  more,  and 
speaking  with  deep  meaning). 

'T  is  said  that  his  resemblance — to  someone 
you  know — is  fairly  terrifying. 

(He  gazes  fixedly  at  the  queen,  who  turns  her  head 
away  in  dismay.) 

THE  QUEEN  (aside). 
Who   is   this   man  ?      O  God,   those  eyes 
would  pierce  the  darkness  of  the  tomb  ! 

(She  turns  suddenly  toward  him,  and  looks  him  in  the 
face. ) 

E'en  so,  dost  thou,  dread  seer,  who  knowest 
everything,  know  what  Monsieur  le  Cardinal 
did  say  to  me  the  other  day  ? 

THE  MAN  (impassively,  emphasizing  every  word). 
He  said  that — he,  an  old  man, — ill, — a 
priest, — rather  than  see  him  reappear  in  life, 
— albeit  an  old  man  must  shudder  to  lay  hand 
upon  a  child, — that  he  with  his  own  hand 
would  kill  .   .   . 

THE  QUEEN  (interrupting  him,  in  dire  alarm). 
One  whom  I  bid  thee  not  to  name  ! 

THE  MAN  (continuing). 
A  captive ! 


ACT  I— SCENE    VI 


27 


THE  QUEEN  (beside  herself). 
Hush  !  thou  dost  appall  me.  Saw  I  not  thy 
gleaming  eyes,  I  well  might  think  that  I  do 
dream,  and  hear  the  awful  voices  of  the  dead, 
who  sometimes  speak !  Who  art  thou,  in 
God's  name  ? 

THE  MAN. 
You  see.     A  juggler  in  the  public  streets. 

THE  QUEEN. 
But  tell  me,  pray !  hast  thou  seen  visions  ? 
Knowest  thou  what  kings  do  say  .  .  . 

THE  MAN. 
And  what  they  do.     My  skill  is  boundless. 

THE  QUEEN. 
I  have  faith  in   thy  keen,  searching  glance. 
What  shall  I  do  ? 

THE  MAN. 
Time  serves  the  man  who  waits.  Be  ever 
ready  for  what  may  befall.  Possess  your  soul 
in  patience.  Let  things  take  their  course ; 
let  God's  hand,  filled  to  overflowing  with 
events  to  come,  open  and  pour  them  forth 
upon  these  many  brows,  awake  or  sleeping  ! 
You  will  have  your  share  therein.  Each  one 
will  have  his  share. 

THE  QUEEN. 

Mon  Dieu !  time  flies,  I  must  return  ! 
Relieve  me  from  my  dire  perplexity.  I  fain 
would  make  my  way  back,  by  the  gate  that 
opens  on  the  wood,  to  the  chateau,  incognito, 
that  no  one  may  have  knowledge  of  my  flight. 
That  gate  by  Trevoux's  men  is  guarded. 
What  to  do  ? 

THE  MAN. 

I  can  assist  you.  'Twixt  ourselves,  my  ser- 
vant counterfeits  Trevoux's  safe-conduct. 

THE  QUEEN. 
Can  it  be  ? 

THE  MAN. 
Know  you  his  writing  ? 


THE  QUEEN. 


Yes. 


(The  man  opens  the  table-drawer,  takes  therefrom  the 
pen  and  paper  to  which  Guillot-Gorju  called  his 
attention  and  gives  them  to  the  Lieutenant  of  Police, 
who  has  maintained  his  original  position  throughout 
the  scene,  sitting  upon  Tagus's  stool  with  his  back 
turned  and  now  and  then  glancing  furtively  at  the 
queen.) 

THE  MAN  (to  Trevoux). 

•    Quick  !     Write  :  Allow  this  lady  and  her 

suite  to  pass. 

(The  Lieutenant  of  Police  writes,  the  man  takes  the 
paper  and  hands  it  to  the  queen,  who  examines  the 
handw^riting  with  astonishment.) 

THE  QUEEN  (reading). 
' '  Signed,  Trevoux  ! ' ' 

(Aside.) 
I  verily  believe  the  man  's  a  sorcerer. 

(She  takes  the  onyx  ring  from  her  finger,  and  gives  it 
to  him.) 

Look,  keep  this  ring  in  memory  of  me. 
When  thou  wouldst  speak  with  me,  at  Saint- 
Germain,  the  Louvre  or  Corapi^gne,  wherever 
I  may  be,  show  this  to  gain  admission. 

(The  man,  with  his  knee  on  the  groimd,  takes  the  ring 
and  places  it  on  his  finger.  The  queen  motions  to 
him  to  look  out  into  the  square.  During  the  scene 
it  has  grown  dark.) 

Is  no  one  passing  by  ? 

(The  man  raises  the  curtain,  then  returns.) 

THE   MAN. 
Madame,  't  is  evening,  and  the  bourgeois 
have  retired  to  their  homes. 

THE  QUEEN. 
Adieu. 

( She  leaves  the  booth  in  haste.  As  soon  as  she  has 
gone,  the  man  goes  straight  to  Master  Trevou-x,  who 
rises.) 

THE  MAN  (in  a  grave,  stem  voice). 

Monsieur,  it  must  be  clear  to  you,  that  one 

of  us,  without  pretense  of  virtue,  holds  in  the 

hollow  of  his  hand  the  other's  head,  and  you 

are  not   that  one.      I  can   undo   you.      So, 


28 


THE   TWINS 


begone,  you  and  your  spies,  and  come  not 
here  again.  If  I  espy  a  gendarme,  I  denounce 
you.  Go,  I  deign  to  say  to  you,  monsieur, 
that  I  Hke  you  have  secret  projects  of  my  own, 
and  I  am  not  the  man  you  seek.  Your  secrecy 
will  be  the  gauge  of  mine.  Keep  silence 
therefore,  upon  every  point !  Remember, 
too,  that  traitors  ever  come  to  grief  in  their 
own  trap.     So,  no  sly  tricks.     Is  it  agreed  ? 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (with  a  bewildered  air). 

Agreed. 

THE   MAN. 

Then  give  me  back  my  servant. 

MASTER  TREVOUX  (aside,  with  a  terrified  glance 
at  the  man). 

I  have  achieved  a  masterstroke  !  I  thought 
to  lay  my  hand  upon  a  worm,  and  caught  a 
snake.     Who  is  this  demon  of  a  man  ? 

THE  MAN  (dismissing  him  with  a  gesture). 

Begone. 

(Exit  the  Lieutenant  of  Police.  The  man  looks  after 
him  for  a  few  moments,  then  sits  down  pensively 
upon  the  block  of  stone.  At  the  back  of  the  stage 
the  Due  de  Chaulne  and  Comte  de  Bussy  re-enter  at 
the  point  where  they  left  the  stage.  They  come 
forward,  talking  together,  without  noticing  the  man, 
and  unseen  by  him.) 


THE   MAN. 
The  night  has  fallen. 

DUG  DE  CHAULNE  (to  Comte  de  Bussy). 
The  strange  story  of   thy  Jean  de  Crequi 
haunts  me,  and  my  brain  is  filled  with  thoughts 
of  this  Alix  de  Ponthieu. 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY  (pointing  to  the  street  leading 
into  the  square  on  the  left). 

Look,    look,    't   is   Breze,    roaring    like  a 
tempest.  ' 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE  (looking). 
Ah  !  meseems  he  's  in  a  howling  rage  ! 

COMTE   DE  BUSSY. 
He  did  not  read  until  to-day  the  libel  that 
has  gone  abroad,  wherein  't  is  said  that,  when 
he  was  at  Nimes,  he  stole. 

DUC  DE  CHAULNE. 
Ah,  yes  !  't  was  Mazarin,  they  say,  who  first 

did  whisper  the  anonymous  report. 

(Enter  the  Comte  de  Br^ze  and  Vicomte  d'Embrun  in 
street  dress.  M.  de  Brize  is  apparently  in  a  towering 
r.ige.  He  holds  in  his  hand  a  pamphlet,  with  which 
he  gesticulates  violently.  At  his  noisy  entrance  the 
man  turns  and  espies  the  four  gentlemen,  but  is  not 
observed  by  either  of  them. ) 


ACT  I—SCENE   VII 


29 


SCENE    VII 

The  Same:    COMTE  DE  BREZE,  VICOMTE  D'EMBRUN. 


COMTE  DE  BREZE  (to  M.  d'Embrun). 
What  care  I  for  the  picture  of  the  vices  of 
the  present  day?     My  only  thought,  a  keen 
and  biting  grief, 

( He  crumples  tlie  pamphlet  angrily  in  his  hands. ) 
is  this  Strange,   infamous,   degrading,  stupid 
insult,  for  which  I  cannot  take  revenge, — and 
yet  for  which  I  needs  must  take  revenge ! 

VICOMTE    D'EMBRUN. 
Be  calm.     Look,  pardieu,  here  are  Chaulne 
and   Bussy,   who  are   likewise   out  of  humor 
with  thy  Mazarin. 

COMTE  DE  BRfiZE. 
Bah  !  out  of  humor  !  I  am  incensed  beyond 
endurance  ! 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY. 

So  are  we,  no  less  than  thou. 

VICOMTE    D'EMBRUN. 
We  nobles  have  been  so  humiliated,  that 
to-day  the  Mazarin  doth  smite  us  with  im- 
punity.    Chaulne  has  lost  his  office. 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY. 
I,  my  regiment. 

COMTE  DE  BREZE. 
But,  Embrun,  the  most  deadly  insult, 
a-"  thou  liest !"  or  a  blow  is  nothing,  on  my 
oath,  when  one  can  take  his  critic  by  the 
collar,  as  is  meet  'tvvixt  well-born  enemies, 
and  say  to  him  :  "  Come  !"  Sure  it  is  that, 
should  Uz^s  insult  Elbceuf,  or  Gontaut  make 


sport  of  La  Tremouille,  or  Albret  treat  Fon- 
traille  with  disrespect,  no  one  of  them  is  tongue- 
tied  afterward  ;  they  are  brave  men,  and  what 
they  've  said  is  said.  And  on  the  morrow,  in 
the  teeth  of  laws  and  regulations,  and  of 
Master  Jean,  the  headsman  of  the  marshals' 
court,  they  hie  them  to  the  fields,  with  gleam- 
ing eye,  the  purple  flush  of  anger  on  their 
brow,  with  head  erect  and  naked  sword  ;  and 
there  deal  blow  for  blow,  take  blood  for 
blood  ;  't  is  well ; — thou  dost  reprove  them,  I 
applaud  ; — lions  they  are  and  tigers,  terrible 
but  great,  magnificent  to  look  on  in  the  reek- 
ing hippodrome,  where  they  do  gallantly  give 
back  the  blows  they  gallantly  endure  !  But  a 
mere  clown  !  a  blackguard  !  a  vile  rascal  who 
picks  up  a  stone  wherewith  to  break  my 
windows  !  An  Italian  monk,  a  base  befrocked 
adventurer,  a  gallant  who  would  fear  to  face 
the  laundresses  upon  the  quay,  and  who,  his 
wondrous  courage  to  display  in  all  its  vast 
sublimity,  borrows  another's  claw,  and  there- 
with scratches  me  1  A  wearer  of  the  cope  ! 
a  beggar,  by  my  halidome !  who  vents  his 
filthy  slaver  on  me  in  the  dark,  the  while  he 
says  his  pater,  and  insults  me  with  the  sense- 
less drivel  of  a  scurvy  pamphleteer,  paid  at 
three  sous  the  page  !  Aha  !  the  mitred  villain, 
the  vile  shaven  traitor,  who  doth  set  his  dog  on 
me,  and  \\<t  perdu  himself, — may  I  be  deemed 
a  heartless,  soulless  clown,  and  I  do  not  to- 
morrow cause  him  to  be  castigated  like  the 


30 


THE   TWINS 


blackguard  that  he  is,  by  six  stout  lackeys 
armed  with  nerfs  de  bceiif,  before  the  statue  of 
King  Henri  on  the  Pont  Neuf ! 

DUG  DE  CHAULNE. 
A   noble   thought,   upon   my  word.     I  'm 
with  you. 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY. 
I  will  go  and  take  my  stand  upon  the  foot- 
way to  applaud,   with  beggars,  citizens  and 
passers-by ! 

DUG  DE  CHAULNE. 
I  will  supply  the  lackeys. 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY. 
I  the  weapons. 

(Some  moments  before,  the  man  has  left  his  seat  and 
softly  approached  the  gentlemen  from  belaind,  unseen 
by  them ;  as  their  excitement  increases  he  lays  his 
hand  familiarly  upon  M.  de  Br^zi's  shoulder.) 

THE  MAN  (with  a  smile,  to  M.  de  BrSz6,  who  turns 
about  in  amazement). 

To   chastise   a   cardinal  of  the  Church  of 

Rome,  a  minister  who  holds  France  in  his 

hand  and  leads  her  where  he  will,  to  break  a 

ncrf  de  bosuf  across  his  back-bone,  Breze,  is  a 

noble,  yes,  a  royal  thing  to  do   but  't  is  by 

no  means  easy  to  be  done. 

(The  four  noblemen  gaze  at  one  another  in  amaze- 
ment.) 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY. 
Whom   doth   this  villain   with   his   yellow 
cloak  address  ? 

VICOMTE  D'EMBRUN. 
I  prithee,  Chaulne,  lend  me  thy  stick.     To 
be  accosted  thus  by  knaves  one  knows  not  is 
too  much. 

THE   MAN  (unconcernedly). 
I  am   Jean,   Cotnte  de  Crequi,   Baron   de 
Vaize ;  my  'scutcheon  or  with  a  wild  plum- 
tree  gules.     In   time  of  war,  my  family,  with- 
out  resorting    to   the    arriere-ban,    gathered 


beneath  its  standard  Blanchefort,  Vaize, 
Agoust,  Montlor  and  Montauban.  On  my 
mother's  side, — a  Farnese  —  a  grandee  of 
Spain,  and  admiral  under  King  Louis  Treize  ; 
such  was  I  formerly.  But  now,  of  less  irnpor- 
tance  in  the  kingdom  than  the  lowliest 
peasant,  banished  by  Mazarin  ten  years  since, 
the  wreck  of  a  great  nobleman,  whereon  the 
Dues  de  Luynes  grow  fat,  a  price  upon  my 
head,  in  hiding,  all  alone,  a  wanderer,  with- 
out supporters,  friends  or  kindred  ;  such  am  I 
to-day.  That  said,  is  it  your  pleasure  that 
we  talk  together? 

(The  gentlemen  approach  him  with  great  eagerness  of 
manner. ) 

COMTE  DE  BREZE. 
Cr6qui,  thy  hand  !     Great  God  !  the  same 
hard  lot  brings  us  together.     Me  they  dare 
insult,  they  dare  to  banish  thee  ! 

COMTE  DE  BUSSY  (scrutinizing  M.  de  Crequi  with 
the  air  of  a  man  searching  his  memory). 

Yes,    't   is   Crequi    in    good    sooth.      Thy 
memory  is  not  yet  dead  among  us. 

(All  shake  hands  warmly  with  Comte  Jean.) 

DUG  DE  CHAULNE. 
We  were  speaking  but  a  moinent  since  of 

thee. 

COMTE  JEAN. 

Gramercy,  messieurs. 

VICOMTE    D'EMBRUN  (examining  Comte  Jean's 
costume  with  admiring  gestures). 

Comte  Jean  !  if  one  would  recognize  you, 
may  I  die  !     You  are  disguised  ! 

COMTE  JEAN. 
Nay.  Aged.  To  turn  a  poor  man  gray, 
Breze,  ten  years  of  exile  equal  twenty  years  of 
life.  Messieurs,  what  would  you  have,  what 
is  your  aim?  Revenge?  I  bring  it  you.  For 
God's  sake  make  less  noise  and  play  a  stronger 
game !     I   hold    for   a   consummate    ass    the 


ACT  I— SCENE  VII 


31 


gambler  who  at  every  word  thumps  with  both 
fists  tlie  table,  foams  with  rage,  and  curses 
brelan  or  quinola,  shrieking  about  the  gold  he 
loses  and  the  cards  he  holds.  Through  all 
this  din  the  hidden  blade  is  sharpening.  A 
Henri  Third  need  never  languish  for  a  Guise. 
And  so,  by  stealth  or  manifestly  as  the  case 
requires,  attack  a  Richelieu  in  broad  daylight, 
a  Mazarin  at  night.  To-day  the  mine,  to- 
morrow the  sword-thrust.  One-half  the  battle 
must  be  fought  in  ambush.  Therefore,  Breze, 
calm  thyself,  make  no  disturbance,  but  take 
my  advice,  say  nothing  and  retain  thy  post  in 
the  king's  household.  Have  no  fear,  't  will 
be  a  mighty  struggle.  If  some  one  of  you 
should  ask  what  end  is  served  by  these  vile 
rags  I  borrow  from  the  birds  of  night,  that  is 
my  secret.  I  intend  to  keep  it.  Further- 
more, this  costume  is  the  type  of  this  ignoble, 
cozening,  deceitful  age !  an  age  wherein 
naught  waxes  great  except  the  public  shame  ! 
wherein  our  eyes,  whichever  way  we  look,  see 
none  but  jugglers,  charlatans,  buffoons  !  A 
farce  wherein  the  honor  of  all  men  is  forfeited  ! 
mine,  yours  !  Retz  is  upon  one  trestle  of  the 
stage  and  Mazarin  upon  another.  Austria,  as 
prompter,  holds  the  manuscript.  And  so, 
messieurs,  since  France,  lost  to  all  sense  of 
shame,  is  in  the  hands  of  low-born  actors, 

(He  goes  to  the  table  on  which  are  the  glasses.) 
I,  Jean  de  Cr^qui,  nobly  born  and  outlawed, 
do  turn  mountebank  !  So  far  as  there  is  need 
I  will,  like  any  reprobate,  cause  scandal  and 
commotion  on  the  public  highways ;  and,  as 
if  I  were  in  my  own  person  court  and  parlia- 
ment and  treasury,  the  Fronde,  the  clergy, 
the  Sorbonne,  the  University,  aye,  and  his 
Eminence  himself,  will  terrify  you  all  with  my 
bold,  shameless  laugh  !  Ah  well !  think  you, 
messieurs,  that  this  insulting  parody  is  my 
true  object  ?  No.  My  heart  is  stout,  I  succor 
the  oppressed,  I  flout  th'  oppressor,  but  the 


censor's  taste  for  cutting  I  have  not ;  and 
though  sufficiently  enamored  of  my  grotesque 
role,  I  shall  to-morrow,  if  I  can,  throw  off  this 
mask.  "But,"  you  will  say,  "  certes,  it  is 
your  purpose,  from  a  cloudless  sky  to  cause  a 
thunder-bolt  to  fall  and  strike  down  Mazarin, 
to  give  us  our  revenge,  and,  lastly,  to 
recover  your  inheritance  ?"  Not  so,  messieurs. 
.Although  the  blood  flows  swiftly  'neath  my 
doublet,  I  am  too  far  gone  in  years  for  my 
wrath  to  mount  so  high ;  and,  although 
Mazarin  is  like  to  fall  because  of  what  I  do, — 
at  least,  I  hope  so,  and  I  so  believe,- — revenge 
is  not  my  object.  Victor  or  vanquished,  this, 
in  a  word,  is  what  I  have  at  heart.  Although 
ten  years  in  banishment,  my  heart  was  here  in 
France,  yes,  my  whole  heart,  alas  !  and  all  my 
hope, — a  child, — my  happiness,  my  duty,  my 
remorse,  a  ray  which  shone  long  since  upon 
my  gloomy  brow,  and  which  was  true  to  my 
bowed  head  when  every  other  light  was  veiled  ! 
A  child,  to-day  a  maiden.  But  why  weary 
you  with  details,  which  concern  myself  alone? 
Moreover,  this  sad  secret  is  imprisoned  in  the 
tomb.  The  humble,  spotless  dove  herself 
knows  not,  nor  ever  will,  why  I  do  love  her 
so.  Messieurs,  't  is  ten  long  years,  ten  years 
this  very  month,  since  I  have  seen  that  angel ! 
But  now,  ah  me  !  I  cannot  live  if  I  hear  not 
her  voice,  sweet  music  that  doth  stir  my  soul, 
if  I  see  not  her  eyes,  the  torches  that  do  guide 
my  straying  glances, — if,  in  short,  I  have  her 
not.  Ah !  pity  the  poor  exile !  All  about 
her  have  deserted  her.  Methinks  I  told  you 
that  she  is  an  orphan  ?  She  has  need  of  me. 
For  four  years  past  my  letters  have  been 
intercepted — I  have  lost  trace  of  her,  I  know 
not  how.  Where  dwells  she  at  this  hour  ?  I 
cannot  say.  O  God  !  to  see  her  once  again, — 
I  weep  for  her  !  That  I  might  be  allowed  to 
live  in  France, — to  be  with  her,  I  begged, 
implored,  aye,  did  a  hundred  craven  things ; 


32 


THE   TWINS 


I  told  Mazarin  that  he  was  a  great  man,  and 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  king  from  Rome  and 
from  Madrid.  But  no  !  they  did  not  choose 
to  give  me  leave  to  come.  Thereon  I  said  in 
my  own  mind:  "'t  is  time  that  this  were 
ended!"  That  is  why,  an  outlaw,  I  have 
come  to  Paris,  why,  in  this  strange  garb, 
degrading  livery,  I  have  embarked  upon  a 
grim  and  arduous  enterprise,  wherein  God 
helps  me  on,  and  which,  perchance,  will 
change  in  one  brief  moment,  with  a  terrible, 
far-reaching  shock,  the  shape  of  France,  the 
face  of  the  whole  world. 

(A  moment  of  silence. ) 
Now  I  have  done.  Ask  me  no  questions. 
Recognize  me  not,  nor  follow  where  I  go. 
But  cloak  your  wrath  in  silence  and  be  ready 
for  the  day  when,  from  the  darkness  bursting 
suddenly  upon  your  frightened  eyes,  I  shall 


cry  out:   "Come!  all  is  finished.     Hasten! 
for  the  work  is  done." 

COMTE  DE  BREZE. 
Rely  on  us. 

(The  four  gentlemen  press  his  hand  anew,  in  silence, 
with  renewed  warmth.) 

COMTE  JEAN. 

I   do  rely  on  you.     Adieu.     The  hour  has 

come  when  I  must  be  alone. 

(He  escorts  tlie  four  gentlemen  to  the  street  leading 
from  the  square,  then  returns  to  the  front  of  the 
stage,  and  rehapses  into  a  state  of  profound  absorp- 
tion. The  lamplighter  enters,  lights  the  lamp,  and 
passes  on.) 

COMTE  JEAN  (musing,  with  his  head  in  his  hands). 
This  unknown  woman  ! 

(It  has  become  quite  dark.  Lights  appear  in  the  win- 
dows of  the  houses.  Tagus  enters  at  the  back  of 
the  stage,  and  rushes  up  to  Corate  Jean  with  an 
expression  of  joy,  not  unmixed  with  awe.) 


ACT  I— SCENE   VIII 


33 


SCENE  Vlll 

COMTE  JEAN,  TAGUS. 


TAGUS. 

Thanks,  master  !  But  for  thee  I  had  been 
hanged.  Thanks !  for  to  thee  1  owe  my 
liberty.  They  told  me  so !  And,  master, 
mark  my  words  ;  the  gipsy,  savage  creature 
that  he  is,  lives  for  the  man  who  gives  him 
life,  and  dies  for  him  who  saves  him.  So  it 
is  that  I  am  thine,  and  where  thou  goest  I 
will  follow  thee.  Take  one  end  of  a  red-hot 
iron  bar,  and  I  will  take  the  other,  and  I  '11 
say:  "  Behold  this  gallant  gentleman  ;  I  love 
him,  for  had  it  not  been  for  him  I  should  be 
now  asleep  for  good  and  all !  Had  it  not 
been  for  him,  I  should  be  swinging  to  and 
fro  upon  the  gallows  in  the  evening  breeze,  as 
if  a  tree  had  caught  me  by  the  hair  as  I  passed 
by,  and  brushing  with  my  feet  the  shrubs 
beneath  me  !  I  belong  to  thee. 
COMTE  JEAN. 

'T  is  well.  And  I  do  count  on  thee.  Now  go. 
TAGUS. 

The  Louvre  is  the  king's,  the  booth  is  ours. 
I  must  take  it  with  me. 

(He  sets  about  pulling  the  booth  to  pieces  in  great 
haste,  takes  down  the  poles,  unfastens  the  hangings 
and  bestows  them  all  in  the  little  hand-cart,  where 
he  also  piles  up  table,  chairs,  bass-drum,  and  all 
the  juggler's  paraphernalia.  Comte  Jean  pensively 
watches  him.) 

COMTE  JEAN. 
Where  shall  I  meet  thee  ? 

TAGUS  (still  at  work). 
Near  the  door  of  the  Ornie   Sainte-Gene- 
vieve. 


COMTE  JEAN. 
Good  ;  hasten. 

TAGUS. 
By  the  way,  the  sergeants  are  a  paltry  lot. 
Seen  from  afar  they  make  a  monstrous   fine 
appearance,  but  when  one  gets  nearer  to  them, 

(He  takes  from  his  breeches'  pocket  a  letter,  which  he 
hands  to  Comte  Jean.) 

master,  I  found  naught  but  this  in  all  their 

pockets. 

COMTE  JEAN  (unfolding  the  paper  and   reading  it 
by  the  light  of  the  lamp  at  the  street  corner). 

"  You  can  safely  trust  the  bearer  of  these 

presents.     Signed,  Maz.4rin."     Oho !    in  an 

emergency  this  may  well  be  of  service. 

(He  puts  the  paper  in  his  pocket.  Meanwhile  Tagus 
has  completed  his  labors,  and  the  booth  with  its 
contents  is  upon  the  cart.  He  walks  up  to  Comte 
Jean  and  takes  his  hand.) 

COMTE  JEAN. 
Go. 

( Tagus  harnesses  himself  to  the  cart  and  exit  dragging 
it  behind  him.  As  soon  as  he  has  disappeared 
Comte  Jean  looks  toward  the  corner  of  the  square 
pointed  out  to  him  by  Guillot-Gorju.) 

Nothing  as  yet ! 

(Returning  to  the  front  of  the  stage.) 

Perchance — but  no. 

(Three  hand-claps  are  heard  in  the  darkness.) 

At  last  !     It  is  the  signal ! 

(Raising  his  voice.) 

God    alone    is    master.      Compiegne    and 
Pierrefonds  ! 

(A  female,  quite  young,  with  a  long  veil  of  black  lace, 
enters,  from  the  farther  end  of  the  square,  at  the 
point  designated  by  Guillot-Gorju,  and  comes  for- 
ward cautiously  and  slowly  toward  Comte  Jean.) 


34 


THE   TWINS 


SCENE   IX 

COMTE  JEAN,  THE  YOUNG  GIRL  (veiled.) 


THE  YOUNG  GIRL  (beneath  her  breath). 
Is  it  you,  my  friend  ? 

COMTE  JEAN  (also  lowering  his  voice). 

'T  is  I,  madame. 

THE  YOUNG  GIRL. 
Are  you  alone  ? 

COMTE  JEAN. 
Alone.     Be  not  afraid. 

THE  YOUNG  GIRL  (walking  up  to  him). 
What  news  ? 

COMTE  JEAN. 
All  goes  as  well  as  we  could  wish.  Fetters 
and  iron  bars  alike  we  '11  break.  Since 
Pierrefonds  is  his  prison-house  the  prisoner  is 
saved ;  for  I  know  Pierrefonds  well.  Some 
friends  of  mine,  disguised  as  soldiers  and  as 
harlequins  will  bear  me  aid.  There  is  no  risk. 
If  you  are  certain  of  the  jailer  you  have 
bribed,  we  may,  with  no  great  difficulty,  set 
him  free.  I  will  be  answerable  for  our  good 
success. 

THE  YOUNG  GIRL. 

I  shall  be  able  to  assist  you  to  gain  access 
to  the  donjon.  Tims :  last  week  the  doctors 
said  that,  if  he  never  looked  upon  a  human 
face,  the  prisoner,  despite  their  watchful  care, 
would  die  of  ennui ;  that  his  close  imprison- 
ment is  killing  him,  and  that  it  is  essential 
that  he  be,  at  least,  permitted  to  hear  singing 
in  the  room  adjoining.  For  this  duty,  the 
sole  remedy  to  cure  the  grief  that  eats  his  life 


away,  I  caused  myself  to  be  selected,  thanks 
to  the  jailer  I  have  bribed,  whose  daughter  I 
am  thought  to  be.  On  the  appointed  day, 
myself  within  and  you  without,  my  friend,  if 
God  is  on  our  side,  will  crush  those  terrifying 
walls,  then  we  will  fly,  and  give  back  home 
and  happiness  and  air  and  light  and  life  and 
courage  to  the  prisoner. 

COMTE  JEAN. 
Once  free,  we  must  look  to  it  that  he  be  not 
taken.     Where  will  you  conceal  him? 

THE  YOUNG  GIRL. 
Friend,  among  the  woods  near  Compiegne 
— from  Pierrefonds  north  a  league — I  have  an 
old  chateau,  of  vast  extent,  and  filled  with 
secret  hiding  places,  Plessis-les-Rois ;  a  man- 
sion far  from  any  town,  built  as  a  place  of 
refuge  in  the  civil  wars.  There  was  I  born, 
and  there,  alas !  my  mother  died.  Since 
then  no  one  has  lived  there.  We  will  take 
him  there  by  secret  paths  that  I  alone  do 
know. 

COMTE   JEAN    (who   has   listened    with   constantly 
increasing  agitation). 

Great  God  1    madame,    you    are    Alix    de 

Ponthieu  ! 

THE  YOUNG  GIRL. 

I  am.     But  how  know  you  ? 

COMTE  JEAN   (falling  on  his  knees). 
Madame !    in    Heaven's  name !    upon    my 
knees  do   I   appeal   to    you.     Madame !    the 


ACT  I— SCENE  IX 


35 


risk,  I  swear  to  you,  is  very  great.  Have 
done  witli  tliis  most  perilous  and  tragic  enter- 
prise !  I  am  not  he  for  whom  you  take  me, 
but  a  man  who  saw  you  born,  alas  !  and  who 
since  then  has  suffered  cruelly,  consumed  by 
bitter  thoughts ;  a  former  servant  of  your 
noble  mother,  who,  keeping  silent,  as  he  must, 
touching  his  rights,  his  mission,  comes  to  make 
atonement  to  her  in  your  person ;  a  poor 
wretch,  whose  wish  it  is,  if  God  accepts  his 
services  in  your  behalf,  to  take  away  your 
suffering  and  give  you  joy  instead  ;  whom  you 
can  never  call  by  any  name ;  a  lion  to  defend 
you,  and  a  dog  to  worship  you  ! 

THE  YOUNG  GIRL. 
Monsieur ! 

COMTE  JEAN. 
A  moment  since  you  called  me  friend  !  I 
am  an  old,  gray-bearded  soldier,  and  I  weep  ! 
Judge  then  of  that  that  's  in  my  heart.  Oh  ! 
madame,  trust  me.  Have  a  little  pity  and  a 
little  faith.  Come  'neath  yon  lamp  that  I 
may  look  at  you. 

(Alix  draws  near  the  lamp,  and  he  gazes  at  her  with 
a  something  very  like  adoration.) 

How  you  have  grown,  and  oh  !  how  fair 
you  are  !  What  joy  to  see  you  once  again  ! 
Ten  years  have  passed  !  ten  years  of  suffering  ! 
To-day  you  cannot  recognize  me.  Aye,  in 
that  self-same  chateau,  where  no  one  dwells, 
Mon  Dieu  !  I  saw  you  as  a  child,  a  httle  child, 
no  higher  than  my  knee,  with  rosy  cheeks, 
running  about  among  the  flowers,  in  the  fields, 
in  the  bright  sunlight !  Poor  dear  child  ! 
Oh !  pray  deem  me  your  friend  !  Upon  my 
soul,  I  say  naught  but  the  truth  !  Why,  once 
upon  a  time,  madame,  when  gipsies  and 
Zingaris  frightened  you,  you  ran  to  me  ! 


ALIX. 


Yes,  I  remember. 


COMTE  JEAN. 

Ah  !  you  see  !     So  let  my  voice  deter  you  ! 

You,  a  mere  girl !     Why,   he  who  puts  his 

finger  on  the  bolts  and  bars  of  a  state-prison 

risks  his  head  !   It  is  a  fatal  scheme  !  a  crime  ! 

't  is  downright  madness  !     You,  aim  a  blow 

at    Mazarin    himself!       And    what    's    this 

prisoner  to  you  ? 

ALIX. 
I  love  him. 

COMTE  JEAN. 

You  do  love  him  ? 

ALIX. 
Think  you  I  would  act  thus  for  reasons  of 
state  ? 

COMTE  JEAN  (aside). 

Ah  !   fate  has  seized  me  never  to  relax  its 
hold,  e'en  as  a  tiger  seizes  on  his  prey  ! 

ALIX. 
'T  is  true,  I  love  him  !  and  I  feel  that  I  am 
sent  to  succor  him.  Abandoned,  in  my 
childhood,  to  paid  guardians,  an  orphan, 
friendless,  with  no  loving  hand  to  foster  and 
protect  me,  I  had  but  the  fields  and  skies  to 
study,  and  I  passed  my  life  dreaming  in  soli- 
tude. 'T  was  thus  that  God,  far  from  the 
busy  haunts  of  men,  my  heart  so  moulded  as 
to  make  of  it  the  fit  recipient  of  a  strange 
love.  Do  you,  who  love  me  so,  and  whom 
God  sends  to  me,  hear  what  I  have  to  tell. . 
The  road  from  Montdidier  to  Roye  passes  a 
manor  where  I  lived  last  year.  One  night  the 
escort  of  a  certain  prisoner,  whom  I  had  seen 
approaching,  made  demand  upon  me  for  my 
dungeon,  that  their  charge  might  pass  the 
night  therein.  As  mistress  of  the  manor,  all 
my  keys  are  at  the  service  of  my  suzerain,  and 
I  obeyed.  Impelled  by  curiosity  I  ventured, 
in  the  night,  to  glide  unnoticed  to  the 
dungeon,  by  a  passage  way  of  which  I  knew 
the  issue.     Through  the  barred  wicket  came 


36 


THE   TWINS 


a  ray  of  light.     I  never   shall  forget  what  I 
then  saw.    The  prisoner  was  walking  back  and 
forth  beneath  the  low  arched  ceiling.    Doubt- 
less, although  you  ne'er  have  seen  him,  you 
have    heard    how    awful    is   the    aspect     he 
presents  ?     In  the  half-light  I   could   distin- 
guish   four   gaunt   keepers.      No  one  spoke. 
'T  was  like  a  tomb.     I,   paler  than  the  brow 
of  him  on  whom  the  axe  is  soon  to  fall,  gazed, 
paralyzed  with  horror,  through  the  bars.   How 
long  a  time  did  I  remain  upon  that  spot  ?     I 
cannot  say.     At  daybreak  guards  and  prisoner 
had  vanished  like  a  dream.     What  more  have 
I  to  tell  ?     Delusion  though  it  be  or  madness, 
and  my  project  wise  or  fatal,  't  is  the  fact  that 
since  that  day  one  thought  has  lived  in  my 
devoted  heart.     Where'er  I  go  that  prisoner 
like  a  shadow  follows,  passes  close  to  me  and 
stretches  out  his  arms,  then   fades  away  into 
the  darkness.     I  will  set  him  free.     Who  is 
the  wretched  victim  ?     Surely  he  is  young ; 
and  he  is  guilty  of  no  crime.     By  what  right 
do  the  executioners  who  have  him  in   their 
midst  change  his  existence  to  a  hideous  dream  ? 
What  is  the   mystery  ?      To  be   quite   frank 
with  you,  by  dint  of    taking    pity   on    him 
I    have   come  to  love  him.     I  have  learned 
that  he  has  been  transferred  to  Pierrefonds, 
and  I  choose  to  rescue  him   and  I  will  rescue 
him.      A  hundred  times  I  've  told  myself  all 
this  that  you  would  tell  me  ;  that 't  is  madness, 
down-right  lunacy,  that  I  know  nothing  of  him, 
that  I  might  select  some  young  and  handsome 
nobleman.     And  then  !   I  love  him  !    Yes,  to 
set  him  free  is  my  one  aim,  an  ardent,  feverish, 
unalterable  purpose  that  doth  fill  my  heart ! 
My  God,  I  see  him  always  there  before  me ! 
By  what  name  you  call  my  state  of  mind  I 
know  not,  but  I  feel  that  I  do  love  him  ! 
COMTE  JEAN. 
Pitiful  illusion !    Alas,  my  poor,  dear  heart, 
you  never  knew  a  mother's  counsel. 


ALIX. 
Oh  !  he  suffers  so  !    Have  pity  on  him. 

COMTE  JEAN. 
'T  is  not  possible  that  you  have  ever  seen 
his  face. 

ALIX. 
I  dream  of  it. 

COMTE   JEAN. 

And  dream  you  also  of  the  scaffold  and  the 
Grdve,  the  frowning  judges,  grim  purveyors 
for  the  tomb,  and  the  death  sentences  read  out 
by  torchlight? 

ALIX. 

I  must  save  him,  or  succumb  myself.  Such 
is  God's  will.  His  dungeon  I  will  open, — 
or  my  tomb. 

COMTE  JEAN. 

Oh  !  go  no  farther — for  full  well  I  know 
you  go  to  death, — in  this  impossible,  insane, 
pernicious  plan  !  By  your  dead  parents,  by 
their  souls  and  yours,  by  the  hidden  bond  that 
binds  us  to  each  other,  you,  still  a  child,  to 
me,  who  soon  shall  be  an  aged  man,  I  do 
beseech  you,  Alix, — and  forbid  you  ! 

ALIX. 
But  there  is  a  voice  from  heaven  that  bids 
me  persevere.  Whoever  you  may  be,  I  can- 
not disobey.  Your  prohibition  is  of  no  avail. 
Hark  ye,  my  friend  :  even  if  my  father.  Mon- 
sieur le  Marquis  Paul  de  Crequi,  and  my 
mother,  that  dear  innocent  who  fell  asleep 
before  her  time,  should  come  forth  from  the 
grave  to  bid  me  pause,  may  God  forgive  me, 
I  would  not  obey  ! 

COMTE  JEAN. 
Ah,  well !  go  forward  !  God  alone  knows 
where  your  steps  will  lead  you.  I  have  naught 
to  do  henceforth  but  follow  you,  assist  you, 
love  you,  give  my  life  to  you,  and  not  survive 
you. 


ACT  I— SCENE  IX 


2>7 


ALIX. 

I  shall  look  for  you  to-morrow. 

COMTE  JEAN. 
At  what  hour  ? 

ALIX. 
At  midnight. 

COMTE  JEAN. 

And  the  place  ? 

ALIX. 

Behind  the  arsenal. 


COMTE  JEAN. 
I  will  be  there. 

ALIX   (offering   him  her  hand,  which  he  tal:es  and 
presses  to  his  lips). 

'T  is  well. 

(Exit  Alix.     He  falls  upon  his  knees.) 

COMTE   JEAN. 
,   O  God,  who  art  the  hope  of  every  storm- 
tossed  bark,  protect  this  child  whom  fate  doth 
whirl  away  into  the  darkness  ! 


ACT  SECOND 


A  very  dark  room,  with  ogive  arches  and  floor  of  large  flagstones,  hung  with  scarlet  velvet  with  gold  fringe ; 
furniture  consisting  of  great  arm-chairs  with  gilded  arms  and  backs  upholstered  in  tapestry ;  the  appearance  of 
the  room  is  gloomy  and  at  the  same  time  magnificent.  At  the  left,  in  a  jog-piece,  a  large  bed  with  ciurtains  of 
red  damask  and  tapestry  in  alternate  stripes,  a  canopy  supported  by  posts,  and  a  head-piece  of  carved  gold,  and 
covered  with  a  lace  coverlid.  At  the  right,  in  another  jog-piece,  a  high  chimney-piece,  with  a  backing  consisting 
of  a  plate  of  iron  adorned  with  fleurs-de-lis.  This  plate  is  so  large  that  it  entirely  fills  the  back  of  the  fire-place. 
Also  at  the  right,  a  table  with  a  velvet  cloth,  standing  upon  a  square  Gobelins  carpet.  On  the  table  a  Venetian 
mirror.  Above  the  bed  a  large  figure  of  Christ  in  ebony,  not  of  the  shape  aflected  by  the  Jansenists,  that  is  to  say, 
with  outstretched  arms. 

In  a  corner  at  the  right,  close  by  the  table,  a  part  of  the  hangings  has  been  torn  aside,  disclosing  the  bare 
wall,  on  which  can  be  seen  strange  figures  cut  in  the  stone  ;  a  long  nail  lies  upon  the  table. 

The  chamber  is  lighted  by  a  single  long-barred  window  at  the  back,  to  which  three  high  stone  steps  lead. 
The  ray  of  light  coming  through  this  window  is  distinctly  marked  upon  the  floor.  The  embrasure  of  the  window 
shows  the  enormous  thickness  of  the  wall. 

As  the  ciutain  rises  a  strange  figure  is  seen  standing  by  the  table.  At  first  glance  there  is  nothing  to  give  a 
clue  to  the  age  or  sex  of  this  figure,  which  is  enveloped  in  a  long  gown  of  violet  velvet,  the  head  being  entirely 
encased  in  a  black  velvet  mask  which  hides  the  hair  as  well  as  the  features,  and  reaches  to  the  shoulders.  A 
small  iron  padlock  secures  the  mask  behind.  When  the  gown  is  thrown  partly  open,  it  discloses  garments  of 
black  satin  and  a  youthful  shape.     The  prisoner  seems  to  be  absorbed  in  a  sorrowful  reverie. 

At  the  back  of  the  stage,  above  the  window,  in  a  small,  dark  gallery  which  runs  all  around  the  dungeon  just 
where  the  arch  begins,  and  which  communicates  with  the  dungeon  by  a  sort  of  ladder-stairway  of  gilded  wood 
against  the  hangings  at  the  left,  can  be  indistinctly  seen  the  form  of  a  white-haired,  gray-bearded  halberdier,  with 
a  black  bandage  across  his  face,  which  covers  one  eye.  This  man,  standing  motionless  and  silent  as  a  statue  in 
the  shadow,  holds  in  his  right  hand  a  long  pistol,  in  his  left  a  naked  sword;  his  halberd,  resting  against  one  of 
the  ribs  of  the  arch,  glistens  in  the  half-light  behind  him. 

Above  the  stairway,  at  the  left,  an  iron  door,  half-hidden  by  a  rich  portiere. 

2.9 


40 


THE   TWINS 


SCENE   I 

THE  MASK;  THE  SOLDIER  (in  the  background). 


THE  MASK  (raising  his  head  heavily,  and  speaking 
with  an  eft'ort). 

For  life  !  • 

(He  turns  his  head  as  if  looking  about  him.) 

A  tomb  !     And  I  but  sixteen  years  of  age  ! 

(He  walks  with  dragging  steps  toward  the  back  of  the 
stage,  and  apparently  directs  his  attention  to  the 
light  from  the  window  reflected  on  the  floor  at  his 
feet. ) 

How  pale  this  ray  of  light,  how  slowly  doth 

it  crawl  across  the  floor  ! 

(He  seems  to   count  the  flagstones,  and  take  some 
measurement  with  his  eyes.) 

Ah  me  !  the  fifth  flag  is  still  far  away  ! 

(He  listens.) 
No  sound. 

(He  returns  hurriedly  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  and 
continues  with  an  outburst  of  despair.) 

To  live  in  two  dark  cells  at  once,  both  day 
and  night !  For  so  it  is  :  my  keepers — what 
is  thy  design,  O  Lord  ? — have  placed  in  one 
my  body,  my  face  in  the  other.  Oh  !  this 
mask  is  the  most  frightful  of  the  two. 

(He  seems  to  view  himself  in  the  Venetian  mirror  on 
the  table. ) 

Sometimes  a  hideous  phantom  terrifies  me 
in  this  mirror  as  I  pass,  and  walk  to  meet  my 
image.  'T  is  myself!  And  so,  when  I  do 
show  myself  behind  the  window-bars  I  see  the 
laborer  in  terror  fly. 

(He  sits  down  and  muses.) 

Not  even  sleep  doth  set  my  soul  at  liberty. 
E'en  in  my  dreams  no  friend  doth  ever  call 


me  by  my  name.  When,  in  the  morning,  I 
go  out,  I  am  no  man  who  goes  and  comes  and 
talks  and  laughs,  instinct  with  joy  and  pride, 
but  just  a  pensive  dead  man  living  in  my 
coffin.  Oh  !  't  is  horrible  !  Long,  long  ago 
— when  I  was  yet  a  child — I  had  a  spacious 
garden,  where  I  used  to  go  at  dawn,  and 
where  I  saw  the  sunbeams  and  bright  colors, 
and  the  birds  and  golden  butterflies  at  play 
among  the  flowers  !     Now  !   .   .  . 

(He  rises.) 
Oh  !  I  am  forced  to  suffer  a  most  shameful 
martyrdom  !  God  help  me  !  there  be  tigers 
who  have  said  :  "  We  will  lay  hands  upon  this 
feeble,  innocent  and  comely  child,  and  put  a 
mask  upon  him,  and  confine  him  in  a  tomb  ! 
There  he  will  grow  to  manhood,  feeling  the 
instinct  of  a  man  instilled  into  his  being  drop 
by  drop,  e'en  through  the  massive  walls.  The 
coming  of  the  spring  will  make  his  pulses 
throb  within  his  tower  of  granite,  like  the 
tree,  the  plant,  the  young  bird  in  its  nest ; 
with  pallid  face  will  he,  from  his  dark  cell, 
watch  the  barefooted  women  passing  in  the 
plain ;  and  then,  to  banish  ennui,  he  will  pass 
his  time  in  picturing  his  dreams  by  figures 
carven  with  a  nail  upon  old  walls,  and  thus 
will  wear  away  his  heart  in  futile  things  ;  ye, 
wrinkles,  will  plough  furrows  on  his  brow  for 
naught !  The  weeks,  the  months,  the  years 
will  flow  on,  his  eyes  will  sink  into  his  head, 
his  hairs  will  whiten;  and  by  slow  degrees, 


ACT  II— SCENE  I 


41 


beneath  his  never-changing  mask,  will  he 
become  the  puny  spectre  of  a  man  !  So  that 
the  day  will  come,  when,  having  ne'er  been 
young,  he  will  awake  to  find  himself  an  old, 
old  man,  a  terrifying  thing  to  his  own  eyes!" 
Ah  me  !  I  am  an  old  man  even  now.  My 
heart  is  weary  !  Child  in  my  childish  terror, 
old  in  thought,  never  a  man  !  O  God,  thou 
hast  no  pity  ! 

( He  throws  himself  into  a  chair,  spreads  his  arms  upon 
the  table  and  rests  bis  head  upon  them,  as  if  in  a 
frenzy  of  despair.  After  a  moment's  silence  he  rises 
with  difficulty,  and  goes  once  more  to  examine  the 
patch  of  light,  which  has  meanwhile  moved  imper- 
ceptibly across  the  floor.) 

It  has  not  yet  made  half  the  journey. 

(He  lets  his  head   fall   forward  on  his  chest  in  deep 
dejection,  and  falls  to  musing  again. ) 

O  my  mother !    how  I  would  have  loved 

you  ! — I  am  stifling  ! 

(He  goes  to  the  window,  ascends  the  steps  and  looks 
out) 

God !    how    joyously   yon    white-wreathed 

smoke  mounts  upward  in  the  sky  !  How  now  ! 

man    binds   his   sheaves,  the    bee   distills  its 

honey,  the    river   flows,  the  clouds    sail   by, 

the  tower-swallows  fly  where'er  they  will,  and 

nature  thrills  and  sings  in  the  deep  forests  ; 

everything  is  filled  with  melody  and  murmuring 

voices,  everything  is  sweet  and  lovely  on  this 

earth  of  ours  ;  and  no  one  tells  the  world,  and 

no  one  cries  aloud    to  men:      "You  all  are 

happy  !    you  are  free  !       But  yonder  in  that 

donjon  keep,  confined  behind  grim  bolts  and 

bars,  deprived  of  the  fresh   breeze  and    the 

warm  sunlight,  envying    the    poorest  hut  its 

smoke,  a    prisoner    languishes  whom    prison 

walls  will  kill,  whose  name  is  known  to  none, 

whose  face  no  one  has  seen,  a  living  mystery, 

a  ghost,  a  riddle,  with  no  glance  for  others, 

no  sunshine  for  himself !     A  sad  and  hopeless 

prisoner,  O  height  of  woe  !   who  weeps  and 

cannot  even  wipe  away  his  tears  ! 


(He  returns  to  the  front  of  the  stage.) 
Oil  !   for  a  single  day  to  bathe  my  hair,  my 
breast,  and  my  uncovered  face  in  the  free  air 
which  fills  all  space,  and  then  to  die !     But 
no,  that  can  be  never  !     Execrable  mask  ! 

(He  tries  to  tear  away  his  mask  with  his  hands.) 

Never,  to  spread  my  wings  and  proudly  soar 
aloft  toward  heaven  through  the  boundless 
azure  sky,  could  I  break  thee  in  twain,  thou 
ghastly  chrysalis  !     O  hell  and  fury  ! 

(He  sits  down  and  lets  his  head  fall  upon  the  table, 
and  sobs  audibly.  After  a  few  montents  he  raises 
his  head  once  more.) 

But  that  angel  voice !  oh  !  let  me  not 
blaspheme  !     The  hour  draws  near. 

'  {^^  goss  again  to  see  what  progress  the  patch  of  light 
has  made.) 

The  ray  of  light  will  soon  have  reached  the 
mark  I  made  on  the  fifth  flagstone. 

(Returning.) 

Her  approach  soothes  all  my  dark  imagin- 
ings to  sleep,  and  in  my  heart  I  feel  a  bound- 
less love ! 

(A  few  chords  are  struck  upon  a  lute,  apparently  in 
the  adjoining  room. ) 

'T  is  she  !  I  hear  her  ! 

(He  falls  upon  his  knees.) 

Blessed  be  thou,  O  God  ! 

(Profound  silence.  A  voice  is  heard  from  the  same 
direction  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  lute. 
The  prisoner  listens,  kneeling,  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy.) 

THE  VOICE. 

In  the  gloom  where  thou  dost  languish 
Heavenly  choirs  thine  ear  greet. 
Let  not  grief  augment  thine  anguish  ! 
Thy  mind  doth  form  a  dream  so  sweet, 
That  thy  heart  will  soon  complete  ! 

E'en  the  darkness  hath  its  gladness 
For  the  soul  in  agony ; 
Stars  and  roses,  foes  to  sadness, 
Bloom  at  once  in  earth  and  sky. 
Blest  by  the  same  God  on  high  ! 


42 


THE   TWINS 


O'er  the  hillside,  wrapped  in  slumber, 
Where  by  day  the  sun  hath  shone, 
Hear  the  sweet  sounds  without  number ! 
Music  of  the  night,  my  own. 
Floating  upwards  to  God's  throne. 

Cease,  O  cease  thy  sad  repining, 
That  thou  canst  not  see  the  light. 
For  the  sun  will  soon  be  shining, 
Morning  ever  follows  night ; 
Darkness  veils  true  love  from  sight. 

THE  MASK   (on  his  knees,  with  his  face  turned  to- 
ward the  fire-place  whence  the  song  seems  to  come). 

O  come  ! 


(The  plate  at  the  back  of  the  fire-place  turns 
slowly  upon  itself,  like  a  door.  A  ray  of  light 
shines  through  the  opening,  upon  which  the  Mask 
gazes  steadfastly  as  if  fascinated,  saying  in  a  low 


Oh  !   come,  come  now  ! 

(A  woman  dressed  in  white  appears  in  the  open- 
ing. It  is  Alix.  Behind  her  is  a  jailer  holding  a 
lantern,  the  light  from  which  shines  into  the  dun- 
geon. The  Mask,  still  kneeling,  gazes  at  the 
female  form  surrounded  with  light,  as  if  it  were  a 
vision. ) 


ACT  11— SCENE  II 


43 


SCENE    II 

THE  MASK,  ALIX ;   at  the  back  of  the  stage,  in  the  fire-place,  THE  JAILER ;   above,  in  the  gallery, 

THE  SOLDIER. 


(Alix  gazes  at  the  prisoner,  her  eyes  overflowing  with 
love  and  compassion.) 

THE  MASK. 
She  comes  !  how  beautiful  she  is  !  And  oh  ! 
for  Hght  and  life  and  joy  with  her  ! 

(Clasping  his  hands.) 
Oh  !  fascinating  creature,  woman,  appari- 
tion, let  me  worship  thee,  for  a  celestial  ray, 
as  of  a  meteor  that  flashes  through  the  sky, 
shines  from  thy  lustrous  eyes  upon  my  awe- 
struck heart !  for  as  I  look  on  thee  I  see  my 
God  !  Thy  head  that  dares  to  visit  this  ill- 
omened  spot  is  crowned  in  my  eyes  with  a 
wondrous  aureole  ;  for  thou  must  be  an  angel, 
aye,  the  most  angelic  of  all  angels,  thou  who  dost 
come  day  after  day  to  this  abhorrent  dungeon, 
and,  a  gentle  presence  'mid  these  frowning 
walls,  dost  breathe  into  the  heart  of  the  poor 
captive,  masked  and  fettered,  such  great  store 
of  love,  despite  the  hate  that  doth  encompass 
him  !  'T  is  now  a  month  since  first  thou  didst 
come  hither,  and  each  day  I  am  more  ravished 
than  the  last  ! 

ALIX  (walking  toward  him). 
My  friend ! 

THE  MASK   (without  rising). 
Come    now,    O    lovely  maiden,  undefiled, 
come,  let  me  gaze  upon  thee,  let  me  kneel  to 
thee  !     Before  all,  swear  that  thou  wilt  come 


to-morrow  !  Give  me  thy  hand  !  Oh  !  would 
that  I  might  kiss  thy  hand  !  thy  fascinating 
hand,  so  pretty  and  so  white  ! 

(He  presses  Alix's  hand  to  his  breast.) 

Ah  !  but  the  Lord  hath  placed  a  mouth 
behind  this  mask,  a  heart  beneath  this  shroud. 

(He  rises.) 

I  am  well  fitted  to  alarm  thee,  am  I  not  ? 
I  was  alone  just  now,  awaiting  the  glad  hour 
when  God  doth  send  thee  to  me.  Forgive 
me  !  I  have  cursed  that  God  to  whom  I  owe 
my  only  joy  !  It  seemed  to  me — thou  seest  I 
did  count  the  seconds, — that  the  strip  of  light 
took  much  more  time  than  usual  to  reach  yon 
flag.  And  then  this  hateful  mask — these 
hellish  walls.  One  who  had  seen  me  then 
might  well  have  deemed  me  mad.  My  mind 
strayed  off  I  know  not  where,  in  search  of 
lovely  visions,  gardens,  flower-strewn  fields, 
where  swarm  the  bees,  whose  wings  I  envy 
them ;  I  wept  and  listened  for  thy  steps ; 
and  now  I  laugh !  But  thou  dost  see  it 
not.  Madame,  you  are  most  beautiful  and 
fascinating. 

(He  leads  her  to  the  arm-chair.) 

Sit  you  there  and  let  us  talk.  If  all  the 
livelong  day,  my  heart,  I  had  thee  by  my  side, 
e'en  here  in  my  dark  tower,  I  'd  laugh  the 
livelong  day.  You  are  my  love  !  In  very 
truth  I  felt  that  I  must  see  thy  face  ! 


44 


THE   TWINS 


ALIX. 

0  misery!  Whene'er  I  enter  here,  my 
heart  is  sore  oppressed.     Unhappy  man  ! 

THE  MASK. 
Nay.  Say  not  so.  No  more  sad  words,  for 
I  am  happy  now.  O  thanks !  I  see  thee.  Is 
it  not  enough  that  I  do  see  thee?  Ah  !  I  fear 
that  something  may  occur  to  scare  away  the 
joy  that  sings  in  my  sad  heart  when  I  do  hear 
thy  voice,  e'en  as  a  bird  that  takes  its  flight 
at  the  least  sound  ! 

ALIX. 
How  I  would  like  to  see  thy  face  ! 

THE  MASK  (taking  her  hand). 

Thy  hand  !  I  claim  it  for  my  own  ! 

(Alix,  spying  the  soldier  stationed  in  the  gallery, 
rises,  runs  to  the  jailer  who  has  remained  on  guard 
in  the  fire-place,  and  points  to  the  soldier  with  evi- 
dent anxiety. ) 

ALIX  (in  an  undertone,  to  the  jailer). 
That  man  ? 
THE  JAILER  (inleiTupling  her,  in  an  undertone). 
Is  with  us.     He  is  yours,  madame. 

THE    MASK   (leading   Alix  back   to  the  chair,  and 
making  her  resume  her  seat). 

1  know  not  why  she  constantly  doth  leave 
me  thus.  I  love  thee  and  I  fain  would  look 
at  thee  ;  stay  there. 

ALIX. 
But  we  must  talk  of  graver  matters.    Listen. 
It  is  time.     My  visits,   long  mysterious,  yet 
have  a  purpose. 

THE  MASK. 
And  that  purpose  ?  .  .  . 

ALIX. 
Is  to  set  you  free. 

THE  MASK. 
O  Heaven  ! 

ALIX. 
And  I  have  the  means. 


THE  MASK  (falling  on  his  knees). 

O  God  !  my  prayer  is  granted  !  Liberty  and 

love  !  't  is  all  of  life  !    They  are  the  two  rays, 

denied  to  the  accursed,  with  which  thou  dost 

illume  thy  paradise  ! 

( He  rises. ) 

A  free  man  !    I,  a  free  man  !    O  entrancing 

thought ! 

(To  Alix.) 

But  how  wilt  thou  proceed  ?  The  tower  is 
well  guarded.  Nay  !  tell  me  nothing  !  What 
care  I  ?  I  trust  thee,  for  to  angels  such  as 
thou  art  nothing  is  impossible  !  Oh  !  will  it 
be  soon  ? 

ALIX. 

Perhaps.     I  hope  so. 

(She  goes  to  the  jailer  and  speaks  in  an  undertone.) 

When  will  be  the  time  ? 

THE  JAILER  (in  an  undertone). 
Not  yet. 

ALIX  (in  the  same  tone). 
But  when,  my  master? 

THE  JAILER  (in  the  same  tone). 
The    court  's    at    Compiegne.     We  might 
spoil  everything.     'T  is  not  the  time  for  such 
a  stroke.     Anon. 

ALIX. 
You  will  assist  me  ? 

THE  JAILER  (aside,  after  a  gesture  expressive  of  his 

fidelity  to  her  interests). 

Have  no  fear  !  I  'm  no  such  fool  !  The 
lady  gives  me  everyday  for  every  t&te-a-tgte, 
ten  louis.  I  propose  to  earn  them  for  a  long 
while  yet  to  come.  The  man  's  an  idiot  who 
wrings  the  goose's  neck  that  lays  him  golden 
eggs! 

ALIX  (to  the  Mask). 
You   err   in   thinking  me  the  daughter  of 
this  man.     No,  I  am  nobly  born,  and  of  the 
house  of  Crequi.     My  name  is  Jeanne-Alix  de 


ACT   II— SCENE  II 


45 


Ponthieu.  I  am  akin  to  Chateaupers,  to 
Rohan,  and  to  Guise.  Among  ray  ancestors 
were  dukes  and  peers,  marshals  and  admirals, 
and  constables  of  France. 

THE  MASK  (as  if  speaking  to  himself). 
And  mine  were  great  men  too  ! 

ALIX  (joyously). 
So  much  the  better  ! 


Woe  is  me ! 


THE  MASK. 


ALIX. 


Methinks,   now  that   you  speak  of  ances- 
tors .  .  . 

THE  MASK  (as  if  suddenly  roused  from  his  reverie). 

I?  no! 

ALIX. 

You  always  said  that  you   knew  not  your 
name. 

THE  MASK. 

'T  is  true,  I  know  it  not. 

ALIX. 

Nay,  do  not  lie  ! 

THE  MASK. 


My  angel ! 


I  would  know 


ALIX. 


THE  MASK  (interrupting  her). 
Nay  !  nay  !  hell  wreaks  its  vengeance  on 
me  !  Ask  me  nothing.  On  the  day  when  I  was 
born  into  the  world,  my  crime  was  consum- 
mated and  I  was  condemned  !  Question  me 
not !  I  come  of  an  ill-fated  family,  and  even 
as  I  speak  to  thee  I  feel  that  I  grow  pale. 

ALIX. 
This  secret  .  .   . 

THE  MASK. 
Is  so  heavy  that  it  well  might  crush  thee. 

ALIX. 
Let  us  share  it. 


THE  MASK. 
Never  !     One  should  not  impose  such  bur- 
dens upon  those  he  loves. 

ALIX. 
This   vault    may    fall   and    crush   me  !       I 
would  know  thy  name  ! 

THE  MASK  (rising,  in  a  state  of  intense  excitement). 

Listen.  I  will  not  tell  it  thee  !  thou  shall 
not  know  it  I  'T  was  for  having  whispered  it 
to  me  an  old  and  faithful  servant  lost  his  life  ; 
this  martyrdom  I  undergo  for  having  heard 
him  whisper  it !  Ah  me !  why  was  the  fatal 
secret  ever  told  to  me  ?  I  lived  beneath  the 
starry  sky,  a  lowly  child  ;  I  had  no  name,  but  I 
had  liberty,  the  fields  and  the  green  trees  and 
nature  and  the  sunlight ;  I  had  God  before 
my  eyes,  upon  my  brow  and  in  my  heart ! 
As  soon  as  this  dark  secret,  like  a  bitter 
draught,  was  poured  into  my  soul,  my  heart 
was  filled  with  gloom.  They  saw  that  I  had 
learned  my  name,  for  I  was  sad  !  One  night, 
I  was  in  bed,  men  came  to  take  me,  and  I 
fled  barefooted  from  the  room ;  I  swooned. 
When  I  awoke,  my  memory  returned  but 
slowly,  but  I  had  a  sense  of  something  press- 
ing on  my  face.  Soon  after,  passing  near  a 
mirror,  I  recoiled  in  horror;  I  had  seen 
myself!  And  ever  since  that  day  I  dwell  in 
darkness.  Ever  since  that  day  with  mournful 
cries  I  pray  to  God  to  give  me  back  the 
vanished  light ! 

(Wildly.) 

Am  I  a  man  ?  Have  I  a  name  ?  No  other 
than  myself  can  answer  yes,  and  I  say  no  ! 

(To  Alix.) 
Art  thou,  who  comest  to  my  dwelling-place, 
full  sure  that  thou  hast  now  before  thy  eyes 
aught  else  than  an  unreal  vision  ?  Who  dares 
speak  to  me,  to  me,  of  flight?  Ye  living, 
leave  the  dead  in  peace  in  their  dread  realm  ! 


46 


THE   TWINS 


This  mask  's  my  face,  I  am  a  phantom  !     Oh  ! 
I  die  !  air  !  air  ! 

(He  falls  in  a  swoon  upon  the  chair. ) 

ALIX  (supporting  him  in  her  arms). 
This  ghastly  mask  doth  stifle  him. 

(To  the  jailer.) 
Have  pity  on  the  wretched  man  ! 
(Pointing  to  the  band  held  in  place  by  the  padlock.) 
Unlock  this  padlock  ! 

THE  JAILER. 
'T  is  a  capital  offense,  madame  ! 

ALIX. 
What !  to  remove  the  mask  an  instant  ? 


Yes. 

'T  is  infamous ! 


THE  JAILER. 

ALIX. 


THE  JAILER. 

And  then  Monsieur  le  Gouverneur  will  be 
here  presently  upon  his  round. 

ALIX  (feeling  in  the  pocket  of  her  skirt). 
O  God  be  praised  !  I  have  my  purse. 
( She  takes  out  a  purse  and  offers  it  to  the  jailer. ) 


Twenty  louis  d'or  to  let  him  breathe  at  ease 
a  single  instant ! 

THE  JAILER    (taking   the   purse  after  some   hesi- 
tation). 
As  you  please. 

(He  selects  a  small  key  from  his  bunch,  and  is  about  to 
insert  it  in  the  padlock.) 

ALIX  (leaning  over  the  prisoner,  who  is  still  uncon- 
scious). 

Oh  !  oh !  this  mask  is  more  oppressive  to 
myself  than  him.  At  last  I  am  to  see  him  ! 
to  release  him  ! 

(For  some  moments  the  soldier  stationed  in  the  gallery 
has  seemed  to  be  watching  more  closely  what  is 
taking  place  below  him.  As  the  jailer  inserts  the 
key  in  the  lock,  while  Alix,  filled  with  joy,  mingled 
with  anxiety,  holds  the  prisoner's  head  in  her  hands, 
the  soldier  suddenly  leans  over  the  balustrade  of  the 
gallery  and  discharges  his  pistol  at  the  prisoner;  the 
bullet  shatters  the  mirror  on  the  table  at  his  side. 
At  the  report,  all  turn  about  in  dismay,  and  at  the 
same  moment  the  iron  door  of  the  dungeon  is  heard 
to  open. ) 

THE  JAILER  (turning  toward  the  soldier). 

Ah  !  traitor  ! 

(The  door  is  thrown  open.  Enters  M.  de  la  Fert4- 
Irlan,  Governor  of  Pierrefonds,  attended  by  turnkeys 
and  soldiers. ) 


ACT  II— SCENE  III 


47 


SCENE   111 


The  Same:   M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN,  TURNKEYS,    SOLDIERS. 


THE  SOLDIER  (in  the  gallery). 

To  arms  !  help  !  search  the  jailer  ! 

( At  a  sign  from  the  governor  the  soldiers  surround  the 
jailer  and  search  him.) 

ALIX  (aside). 

God  in  heaven  ! 

THE  SOLDIER. 

In  his  pocket  is  a  purse  containing  twenty 

louis — count    and   see  ! — which    he   received 

before  my  eyes  from  madame,  for  removing 

the  man's  mask.     I  had  my  orders  and  I  fired 

on  him. 

(The  soldiers  find  the  purse.) 

A  SOLDIER  (after  counting  them). 
Twenty  louis  d'or  ! 

M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN. 
A  woman  here  !  what  means  ?  .   .   . 

THE   JAILER  (in  deadly  terror,  to  Alix,  under  his 
breath). 

A  man  you  bought !  so  much  for  trusting 
to  such  knaves  ! 

THE  SOLDIER  (to  the  governor,  pointing  to  Alix). 
I  let  her  enter.  To  perform  my  duty 
thoroughly  I  wished  to  hear  all,  that  I  might 
know  all.  But  when  I  saw  that  't  was  their 
purpose  to  unmask  his  face,  I  thought  it  better 
to  cry  halt. 


M.  DE  LA  FERT6-IRLAN. 

'T  was  most  judicious. 

(He  hurriedly  closes  the  padlock,  and  puts  the  key  in 
his  pocket ;  then  he  turns  to  the  soldiers  who  sur- 
round the  prisoner. ) 

Put  this  man  in  close  confinement ;   leave 
the  woman  here,  that  we  may  question  her. 

THE  .SOLDIER  (to  the  governor). 
I  would  be  glad  to  say  a  word  in  private  to 
monseigneur. 

( He  comes  down  from  the  gallery  as  the  soldiers  are 
removing  the  jailer.) 

THE  JAILER  (shaking  his  fist  at  him). 

Traitor  ! 

(Exeunt  the  jailer  and  his  guards.  M.  de  la  Fert6- 
Irlan  dismisses  the  other  turnkeys  with  a  gesture, 
and  turns  to  the  soldier  who  has  taken  his  stand 
beside  him  at  the  front  of  the  stage. ) 

M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN. 
Well  ? 

THE  SOLDIER  (pointing  to  the  barred  window). 

Be   pleased   to   walk   to    yonder   window, 
monseigneur. 

(M.  de  la  Fertelrlan  goes  to  the  window  and  ascends 
the  steps. ) 

Now  shake  the  centre  bars. 

(M.  de  la  Fert6  Irian  shakes  the  bars  indicated  by 
the  soldier;  they  come  away  in  his  hand  and  leave 
a  wide  open  space.) 


What  say  you  to  it? 


48 


THE    TWINS 


M.  DE  LA  FERTfi-IRLAN  (examining  the  bars 
which  seem  to  have  been  neatly  sawed,  and  artisti- 
cally replaced). 

But  for  thee  !   .   .  . 

THE  SOLDIER  (going  to  the  window). 
Send  for  the  soldier  to  come  hither  whose 
halberd  you  see  shining  at  the  tower's  foot, 
down  yonder. 

M.  DE  LA  FERT£-IRLAN  (looking  out). 
'T  is  the  sentinel. 

THE  SOLDIER. 
Stationed  beneath  this  window.     Yes. 

(M.  de  la  Ferte-Irlan  opens  the  door  of  the  dungeon, 
and  gives  an  order  in  a  low  voice  to  the  turnkeys 
who  have  remained  outside  the  door,  then  returns  to 
the  soldier,  who  has  come  back  from  the  window 
to  the  front  of  the  stage.) 


M.  DE   LA   FERTE-IRLAN. 
My  worthy  friend,  the   king  is   much    in- 
debted to  thee.     Tell  me,  dost  thou  know  the 
woman's  name  ? 


THE  SOLDIER. 


No. 


M.  DE  LA   FERTfe-IRLAN. 
'T  is — a  plot ! 

THE  SOLDIER. 
I  think  as  much. 

M.  DE   LA   FERTfe-IRLAN. 
I  will  take  care  that  thou  art  paid  and  well 
rewarded. 

THE  SOLDIER. 

Ah  !  here  is  the  soldier. 

(Enters  Tagus,   in   uniform,  a  knapsack  on  his  back, 
surrounded  by  the  turnkeys.) 


ACT  II— SCENE  IV 


49 


SCENE    IV 

The  Same:  TAGUS. 


THE  SOLDIER  (to  M.  de  la  Fert^-Irlan) 
Permit  me,  monseigneur. 
(To  Tagus.) 
Come  hither,  knave ! 

(Tagus  comes  forward,  gazing   at   the   soldier  in   the 
utmost  amazement.) 

Let  him  be  searched  before  Monsieur  le 
Gouverneur.  At  once  and  without  pity.  In 
his  sack  he  has  a  rope-ladder. 

TAGUS  (whose  wonder  seems  to  increase). 
I  do  not  understand. 

(They  search  his  knapsack,  in  which  tliey  find  a  rope- 
ladder  provided  with  holdfasts.) 

M.  DE   LA  FERTfi-IRLAN. 
'T  is  as  thou  sayest. 

THE  SOLDIER  (uncoiling  the  ladder,  to  M.  de  la 
Ferte-Irlan). 

If  it  pleases  you  to  try  it  for  a  moment,  you 
will  find  that  it  's  just  long  enough  to  reach 
the  ground  from  yonder  opening. 

TAGUS. 
I  understand  but  little  of  all  this. 

THE   SOLDIER    (to  the   turnkeys,  turning  toward 
Tagus). 

Perchance  he  may  escape.  Secure  the 
beggar  better.     Bind  him  fast. 

(Hitherto  the  Mask  has  seemed  to  be  in  a  sort  of 
stupor ;  at  this  point  he  turns  his  head  as  if  looking 
about.) 


THE  MASK  (as  if  he  were  speaking  in  a  dream). 
Great  God  !    What  does  this  mean  ? 

(The  jailers  bind  Tagus's  arms  behind  his  back.     He 
makes  no  resistance  but  seems  dazed. ) 

M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN  (pointing  to  Tagus). 
To  the  dungeons  ! 

THE  SOLDIER. 
Monseigneur,  permit  him  to  remain. 

(To  Tagus.) 

Thou   shalt   be   hanged   within   the   hour, 

villain  ! 

TAGUS. 

Excellent.     I  understand  it  less  and  less. 

(At  a  sign  from  the  governor  the  jailers  lead  Tagus  to 
a  corner  of  the  stage,  whence  he  looks  on  with  an 
anxious  air.  Alix  is  completely  crushed.  The  Mask 
seems  turned  to  stone.) 

M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN  (taking  the  soldier  aside, 
in  an  undertone). 

My   friend,   it   was   their    plan    to  set    the 
prisoner  free,  't  is  clear. 

THE  SOLDIER  (in  an  undertone). 

The  garrison  is  purchased  to  a  man.     His 

Eminence  had  warning  of  the  peril  yesterday, 

and  sent  me  hither  instantly.     The  danger  's 

imminent. 

(He  takes  from  his  pocket  a  folded  paper  which  he 
hands  to  the  governor  to  read. ) 

M.  DE   LA  FERT6-IRLAN  (reading). 
"You  can  safely  trust  the  bearer  of  these 
presents.   Mazarin."   Enough.   What  wouldst 


50 


THE   TWINS 


thou  have  me  do  ?     Speak  for  thyself.     In  my 
name  give  such  orders  as  thou  wilt. 

ALIX  (aside,  looking  upward). 
O  God,  have  mercy  !  ^ 

THE  SOLDIER  (to  the  turnkeys,  in  a  loud  voice). 

In  the  king's  name,  let  all  the  garrison,  at 
once  and  for  good  reason,  be  ordered  to 
return  to  the  chateau.  Secure  the  entrance  to 
the  donjon.  Venture  not  to  leave  a  single 
sentinel  vifithout.  Up  with  the  drawbridge, 
lower  the  portcullis.  Bring  us  the  keys. 
Your  heads  will  answer  for  it. 

M.  DE  LA  FERTfi-IRLAN  (to  the  turnkeys). 

Do  you  hear  ?     Obey. 

(Exeunt  the  turnkeys.) 

THE  SOLDIER  (to  M.  de  la  Fert^-Irlan). 
The  garrison,  who  are  all  armed  and  numer- 
ous, must  be  secured  with  care.  It  may  be 
that  to-night  they  will  attempt  a  coup  de  main 
to  carry  off  the  prisoner  by  force.  To-mor- 
row we  shall  have  a  reinforcement. 

M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN. 
Thinkst  thou  so  ? 

THE  SOLDIER. 
His  Eminence  doth  send  us  thirty  archers 
of  his  own  guard.  At  break  of  day  they  will 
be  here.  Meanwhile  we  two  must  keep  the 
tower.  We  have  still  full  many  schemes  to 
guard  against,  and  we  may  be  compelled,  per- 
chance, to  undergo  a  siege. 

M.  DE  LA  FERTfi-IRLAN. 
'T  is  well.     Let  us  entrench  ourselves  here 
in  this  room,  my  friend. 

THE  SOLDIER   (pointing  to  the  iron  door). 
Is  yonder  door  secure  ? 

M.  DE  LA   FERTE-IRLAN. 
To  burst  it  in  they  must  have  cannon. 


ALIX  (aside). 
Woe  is  me  !  all  hope  has  vanished  ! 

(Enter  the  turnkeys  with  lanterns.     Night  has  fallen 
during  the  foregoing  scene. ) 

A    TURNKEY    (handing   a   bunch   of   keys   to   the 
governor). 

Every  door  is  locked.     Here  are  the  keys. 

M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN  (taking  the   keys  and 
attaching  them  to  his  belt). 

Let  no  one  leave  the  chateau. 

THE  TURNKEY. 
They  all  are  under  lock  and  key. 

M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN  (in  an  undertone,  to  the 
soldier). 

What  wouldst  thou  now  that  we  should  do  ? 
Are  these  men  to  remain  ? 

THE  .SOLDIER. 
No.     I  distrust  them.     By  your  leave  we 
will  interrogate  this  rascal. 

(He  points  to  Tagus.) 

M.   DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN  (to  the  turnkeys). 
Go. 

(The  turnkeys  obey.  The  governor  closes  the  iron 
door  and  throws  the  bolts  with  his  own  hand,  then 
returns  to  the  soldier.) 

We  are  alone.     No  one  can  reach  us  here. 
Thus  we  are  safe  .  .  . 

THE  SOLDIER  (pointing  to  the  fire-place,  which  has 
remained  open  since  Alix's  entrance). 

Ah  !    pardon    me.       Someone  might  come 
upon  us  through  that  opening. 

M.  DE   LA   FERTE-IRLAN   (walking  to  the  fire- 
place). 

'T  is  true.    Ah,  yes  !  through  here  the  lady 
entered.     Let  us  inake  it  fast. 

THE  SOLDIER  (detaining  him). 

The  plate  is  a  thick  sheet  of  metal.     No 
one  save  the  jailer  knows  how  it  is  made  to 


ACT  II— SCENE  IV 


51 


open,  but  the  conspirators   might  well  have 
recourse  to  it. 

M.  DE  LA  FERT£-IRLAN. 
Whither  does  it  lead  ? 

THE  SOLDIER  (peering  through). 

To  a  dark  chamber,  with  no  fire-place  or 

window ;  in  the  shadow  I  can  see  an  open 

door. 

M.  DE   LA  FERTE-IRLAN. 

So  !  go  and  close  it. 

(The  soldier  obeys  and  passes  through  the  opening. 
A  noise  as  of  a  key  turning  in  a  lock  is  heard  in  the 
darkness  beyond  the  opening,  then  the  soldier  reap- 
pears with  two  keys  in  his  hand. ) 

THE  SOLDIER. 
The  keys  were  in  the  lock. 

M.  DE  LA  FERTE-IRLAN. 
What  of  the  bolts  ? 

THE  SOLDIER  (going  through  the  motion  of  throw- 
ing bolts ) . 

Well  home ! 

M.  DE   LA  FERTE-IRLAN. 
I  fear  some  trap,  some  stratagem.     Didst 
thou  securely  fasten  everything  ? 

THE  SOLDIER. 
I  did.     But  go  yourself  and  look. 

M.  DE  LA   FERTE-IRLAN. 

That  will  I. 

( He  passes  out  of  sight  through  the  opening  into  the 
darkness  beyond.) 


ALIX  (aside). 


All  is  lost ! 


(The  soldier  follows  closely  upon  the  governor's  heels, 
and  as  soon  as  the  latter  has  disappeared,  he  hurriedly 
pulls  the  plate  back  into  place  ;  it  closes  with  much 
noise.  Then  he  tears  off  his  white  wig  and  black 
bandage  and  faces  Alix,  Tagus  and  the  Mask,  who 
gaze  at  him  in  stupefaction.     It  is  Comte  Jean.) 


COMTE  JEAN. 

Nay,  all  is  saved.     'T  is  I !     The  jailer  was 

not  true  to  you,  and  broke  his  word.     Last 

night, 

(To  the  Mask.) 

while  you  were  sleeping,  with  my  faithful 
Tagus  here,  I  sawed  the  bars  through  and  pre- 
pared the  ladder.  Now  all  is  done.  The 
garrison  is  under  lock  and  key ;  the  governor 
the  same  ;  the  jailer  in  a  dungeon  ; 

(To  the  Mask.) 
and  you  at  liberty.     Now  let  us  go. 

(Wild  outburst  of  joy.     Alix  runs  to  Comte  Jean,  seizes 
his  hands  and  presses  tbem  to  her  heart.) 

THE  MASK  (with  effusive  gratitude,  to  Comte  Jean). 
May  God  reward  you  ! 

TAGUS. 
Ah !  I  understand. 

ALIX. 
Accept  my  thanks ! 

COMTE  JEAN. 
My  joy  's  as  great  as  yours. 

ALIX  (kissing  his  hands). 

Dear  friend ! 

COMTE  JEAN. 

But  we  must  hasten,  for  time  flies. 

(He  cuts  Tagus's  bonds  with  his  dagger,  then  picks  up 
the  ladder  which  is  still  lying  on  the  floor.) 

The  ladder  to  the  window  ! 

( He  runs  to  the  window,  fastens  the  ladder  to  the  bars, 
and  drops  the  end  outside.) 

TAGUS  (taking  from  the  table  the  keys  of  the  room  in 
which  the  governor  is  confined). 

The  keys  into  the  moat ! 

(He  throws  the  keys  through  the  window.) 

THE  MASK  (to  Comte  Jean). 
Remove  the  mask  !  oh  !  quickly  ! 

COMTE   JEAN. 
First  of  all,  I  conjure  you,  let  us  go  hence. 
The  night  is  very  dark.     We  have  to  walk 


52 


THE   TWINS 


two  hours  through  the  woods.  I  will  not  take 
it  off  until  we  reach  Plessis-les-Rois.  Your 
safety  first  of  all.     Oh  !  let  us  go  ! 

(To  Tagus,  who  is  busy  securing  the  ladder.) 

The  clothes? 

TAGUS. 
Are  down  below. 

COMTE  JEAN. 
Where  ? 

TAGUS. 
In  a  thicket. 

COMTE   JEAN. 

Good.     Now  hasten  we. 

(The  governor  can  be  heard  pounding  violently  on  the 
plate  at  the  back  of  the  lire  place. ) 

Aye,  pound  ! 

ALIX  (gazing  joyfully  at  the  Mask). 
O  bliss  !  he  's  free. 

COMTE  JEAN.     (He  takes  from  his  pocket  a  port- 
folio and  a  pencil,  .and  writes  upon  his  knee.) 

Here  you  will  find  Monsieur  le  Gouverneiir. 

( That  done,  he  tears  out  the  leaf  and  fastens  it  to  one 
of  the  nails  riveted  into  the  metal.  Then  he  goes  to 
the  window  and  examines  the  ladder. ) 

(To  Tagus.) 
Is  it  firm? 


TAGUS. 

Oh,  yes  ! 

THE  MASK  (to  Comte  Jean). 
Your  name  ? 

COMTE  JEAN. 
That  you  shall  know  anon. 
(The  governor  continvies  to  hammer  upon  the  plate.) 
Aye,  good  man,  hammer  on  ! 
(He  motions  to  them  all  to  go  to  the  window.) 

(To  Tagus. ) 
Do  thou  go  first. 

(Pointing  to  Alix.) 

You  next. 

(To  the  Mask.) 
And  you.     I  will  go  last. 

(Tagus  climbs  over  the  window-sill,  places  his  foot  on 
the  ladder  and  passes  down  out  of  sight.  Alix  fol- 
lows him,  assisted  by  Comte  Jean.) 

COMTE  JEAN. 
O  God,  have  Alix  in  thy  keeping  ! 

ALIX  (descending,  and  half  out  of  sight  behind  the 
wall). 

Save  the  prisoner,  O  God  ! 

(The  Mask  descends  in  turn,  and  just  as  Comte  Jean 
places  his  foot  on  the  lad<ler  the  curtain  falls. ) 


y/'tchel  • 


,v;/,/.;,.  ,„. 


gi^IWT    3HT 


I    31/1332      QHIHT   TOA 


.bfiBfl  K'>(383ifiI/[  iijov  fx'rA  I  briB 

AC"E'^^'^ii"H  I RD 

.tijaianom  .arnoD 
A  salon,  once  magnificent,  now  dilapidated ;  rich  draperies,  torn  and  threadbare.  Architecture  and  furniture 
of  the  time  of  HeD(§riM.9fft)M-%^W#htoijl)ig)>Hj9icl4^ficfeSjrjjsTOAlfe^p  ggf^j^Tvgfl -pff.  Great  cobwebs  are 
hanging  to  the  carved  and  painted  timbers  of  the  ceiling.  Two  large  full-length  portraits,  covered  with  dust,  one 
of  Louis  XIII.,  the  other  of  Cardinal  de  Richelieu,  face  each  other  on  the  wall.  The  hangfi^sVre  blue,  covered 
with  ihrtliMar  HEab(J;feeldi)fls(Hii»dst(listAnte«eri})fs|i|)rssshEtfes>l«f^hrf)fettJ^  'srtqBaoB(^cffe<hl^%Sl^K?^the  stage  a 
wide  door  surmounted  by  the  wild  plum-tree  (^'r^^tl^BJIi  ^Sljeath  a  ducal  crown.  At  the  right,  in  a  jog-piece, 
folding-doors.  At  the  back  a  table  stands  at  the  corner  of  the  opposite  jog-piece.  At  the  left  a  window,  beside 
which  is  an  old  screen ;  at  tl^flsBii^bift  «bJfio»Bi4rfli  flbmtj  .Jtei9I(Sw^l'ffB'l«  damp  and  gloomy  aspect  of  an 
apartment  many  years  uiiinliabited.       ,      ,         .,  , 

As  the  cM  flsW^e^i^eel  MM?!'i?i!^¥.oX^'>^m^mSm^mSh^W\.0the  stage.     The 
queen  Uriii»tsediitivbl&^39dJt;j^fisianfeal3l(:UbB£CM4iMlvwt^t*(»fl<S)g;t%'\I^B^^p^§|%^tqfi^  has  no 

hood  ;  he  has  the  blue  ribbon  about  his  neck^ .)r^if<%ilf i^ii^iiisite  young;  he  wears  a  magnificent  coat  of  gold 
brocade,  with  the  blue  ribbon,  hat  with  white  plumes,  sword  with  diamond  hilt,  lace  ruff  and  sleeves.     He  is  a 
well-favored  youth.     The  cardinal,  who  coughs  constantly,  and  is  pale  and  shattered  by  illness,  has  the  appear- 
ance of  an  old  man,  although  he  is  really  less  than  sixty. 
Two  candelabra  are  upon  the  table. 


SCENE  I 

THE  QUEEN  MOTHER,  THE  KING,  CARDINAL  MAZARIN. 
(The  queen  is  standing  by  the  table   with  her  bent  ]  (He  examines  the  dusty  arm-chairs.) 


forefinger  resting  upon  it.  The  cardinal  stands 
behind  her  in  an  attitude  of  respect.  The  king  is 
looking  about  in  amazement  at  the  dilapidated  con- 
dition of  the  salon. ) 

THE  KING. 

Madame,  you  call  this  place  Plessis-les-Rois  ? 


Why,  I  should  say  it  had  been  uninhabited 
for  nigh  a  hundred  years. 

(Turning  again  to  the  queen.) 
If  your  Majesty  has  aught  to  say,  I  listen. 
Monsieur  le  Cardinal  of  course  may  hear. 

S3 


.[azarmappiitiaches  the     it)i;-    .ndT^ 


L-i   ciiv ''.  -fick.      ..I    the  same  time  h-  lo  ns  over  In 


the  Miinn 


THE  CARI>1;NAL  (in  an  undertone  to  the  queen). 
We  needs  iimst  have  an  explanation,  undisturbed.     I  will' reti.  m  :i non. 

,e  U-ing  kisses  the  queen's  hand.l-.ws  lowto.het  and  takes  h,s  I.ave,  ,,rtc  .der  .  ;  'He  cardinal 

carrying  the  light.  1 


■=:  F.'Hci.-iT- 


ACT   THIRD 


A  salon,  once  magnificent,  now  dilapidated;  rich  draperies,  torn  and  threadbare.  Architecture  and  furniture 
of  the  time  of  Henri  IV.  Old-fashioned,  high-backed  chairs  with  the  gilding  worn  off.  Great  cobwebs  are 
hanging  to  the  carved  and  painted  timbers  of  the  ceiling.  Two  large  full-length  portraits,  covered  with  dust,  one 
of  Louis  XIII.,  the  other  of  Cardinal  de  Richelieu,  face  each  other  on  the  wall.  The  hangings  are  blue,  covered 
with  the  letter  H  and  gold  fleurs-de-lis,  interwoven  with  the  crest  of  the  Cr^quis.  At  the  back  of  the  stage  a 
wide  door  surmounted  by  the  wild  plum-tree  (crequier)  beneath  a  ducal  crown.  At  the  right,  in  a  jog-piece, 
folding-doors.  At  the  back  a  table  stands  at  the  corner  of  the  opposite  jog-piece.  At  the  left  a  window,  beside 
which  is  an  old  screen ;  at  the  right  a  table  and  a  chair.  Everything  has  the  damp  and  gloomy  aspect  of  an 
apartment  many  years  uninhabited. 

As  the  curtain  rises  the  Queen  Mother,  King  Louis  XIV.  and  Cardinal  Mazarin  are  upon  the  stage.  The 
queen  is  dressed  in  black  with  jet  ornaments  ;  the  cardinal  wears  a  long  gown,  red  cap  and  stockings,  but  has  no 
hood  ;  he  has  the  blue  ribbon  about  his  neck.  The  king  is  quite  young ;  he  wears  a  magnificent  coat  of  gold 
brocade,  with  the  blue  ribbon,  hat  with  white  plumes,  sword  with  diamond  hilt,  lace  ruff  and  sleeves.  He  is  a 
well-favored  youth.  The  cardinal,  who  coughs  constantly,  and  is  pale  and  shattered  by  illness,  has  the  appear- 
ance of  an  old  man,  although  he  is  really  less  than  sixty. 

Two  candelabra  are  upon  the  table. 


SCENE  I 

THE  QUEEN  MOTHER,  THE  KING,  CARDINAL  MAZARIN. 


(The  queen  is  standing  by  the  table  with  her  bent 
forefinger  resting  upon  it.  The  cardinal  stands 
behind  her  in  an  attitude  of  respect.  The  king  is 
looking  about  in  amazement  at  the  dilapidated  con- 
dition of  the  salon.) 

THE  KING. 

Madame,  you  call  this  place  Plessis-les-Rois  ? 


(He  examines  the  dusty  arm-chairs.) 
Why,  I  should  say  it  had  been  uninhabited 
for  nigh  a  hundred  years. 

(Turning  again  to  the  queen.) 
If  your  Majesty  has  aught  to  say,  I  listen. 
Monsieur  le  Cardinal  of  course  may  hear. 

53 


54 


THE   TWINS 


(The  queen  assents  with  a  movement  of  her  head.) 

You  brought  us,  such  at  least  I  understand 
to  be  the  case,  to  this  deserted  spot  that  we 
might  talk  together  without  witnesses.  'T  is 
well.  You  might  have  chosen  a  more  fitting 
place,  but  I  complain  neither  of  place  or  hour, 
nor  of  the  very  cold  and  grewsome  passage- 
way, through  which  we  had  to  pass  to  reach 
this  charming  spot.  I  listen  to  your  Majesty 
with  filial  submission. 

THE  QUEEN. 
Sire,  I  have,  in  truth,  full  many  things  to 
say  to  you.  And  first  of  all,  the  treaty  of 
London  and  of  Paris,  though  kept  secret,  hath 
leaked  out  and  doth  disturb  men's  minds ; 
the  emperor  doth  marvel  at  it,  and  the 
Catholic  king  is  sore  displeased.  Let  me 
explain  myself.  The  Genoese  do  cozen  you, 
and  the  Tunisian  pirates  do  lay  waste  Prov- 
ence and  are  not  punished.  A  king  should 
be  beloved  at  home  and  feared  abroad.  Do 
not  disturb  yourself  concerning  your  return  to 
Compiegne,  if  it  be  late. 

(She  points  to  the  door  at  the  right.) 

There  is  a  roomadjoining  this  which  I  gave 
orders  to  make  ready  for  your  Majesty.  I 
resume.  Money  is  lacking.  We  are  ruining 
ourselves  in  fetes.  Monsieur  de  Richelieu 
caused  heads  to  fall,  but  as  a  great  statesman 
should,  in  broad  daylight,  with  head  erect. 
(She  points  at  Mazarin.) 

But  monsieur  kills  and  hides  his  head  ;  and 
I  know  many  a  pavement  that  is  dyed  with 
blood  and  washed  again  while  all  is  dark. 
The  Holy  Father  's  very  old  ;  but  no  negotia- 
tions have  been  entered  into  with  the  cardi- 
nals, in  preparation  for  a  conclave.  All  are 
for  the  English  or  the  Huguenots.  It  is  a 
crying  shame  !  But  I  would  fain  explain  my 
meaning  without  wrath.  To  make  a  colonel 
of  a  gallows-bird, 


(Pointing  at  Mazarin.) 
a  kinsman  of  monsieur — a  knave,  a  cur,  he 
hath  aggrieved  the  Dauphin  regiment.  These 
three  days  past  they  've  marched  to  the  Louvre 
barriers  with  lowered  pikes,  so  sorely  hurt  are 
they.  This  stirs  all  Paris  to  its  centre.  Well 
it  is,  that  you  're  at  Compiegne,  and  know 
naught  of  it.  But  I  tell  you  all.  A  flame  is 
smouldering  in  the  provinces;  nothing  in 
reason  has  been  granted  to  the  princes;  't  is 
a  inere  patched-up  peace  of  theirs,  and  I  do 
greatly  fear  the  crash.  The  dukes  are  angry 
and  the  Parliament  is  out  of  patience.  Even 
over  me  an  arm  of  iron,  sire,  is  outstretched; 
within  my  own  four  walls  I  am  no  longer 
mistress.  Boisthibaut,  my  valet,  has  been 
taken  from  me.  Bread  is  dear.  In  one  word 
everything  goes  ill.  We  aim  at  nothing  great, 
do  nothing  wise  :  your  enemies  are  all  looked 
kindly  on  ;  and  so  it  is  the  state  is  ruined. 
'T  is  beyond  all  doubt.  Ask  Monsieur  the 
First  President ! 

THE  CARDINAL  (in  an  undertone  to  the  king,  with 
an  imperceptible  shrug). 

Sieur  Mathieu  Mole ! 

THE  QUEEN. 
I  seem  to  you  o'er  wrought ;  but  ask 
Monsieur  le  Marechal  d'Estrees  ;  Madame  de 
Targis,  one  of  my  maids  of  honor,  whom  the 
late  king,  my  lord,  esteemed  most  highly ; 
ask  De  Thou,  of  all  men  the  most  pure  in 
these  distracting  times  !  Souvre  !  or  Councilor 
Ledeau  ! 

THE  CARDINAL  (in  an  undertone  to  the  king). 

Poor  fools  ! 

THE  QUEEN  (to  the  cardinal). 
What  are  you  saying  there   beneath   your 
breath?     Insulting  words? 

THE  CARDINAL  (with  a  low  reverence). 
I  say  that  they  are  very  worthy  men. 


ACT  II I—SCENE  I 


55 


THE  QUEEN  (pointing  her  finger  at  the  cardinal). 

But,  sire,  every  day  this  man  encroaches  on 
your  rights  !  All  France  is  in  commotion  ! 
Europe  anxiously  looks  on  !  The  good  coad- 
jutor 's  a  man  of  mind  !  See  what  is  said  ! 
see  what  is  writ !     The  Due  de  Beaufort  .  .  . 

THE  CARDINAL. 
Retz  and  Beaufort !     Rebels  both. 

THE  QUEEN  (to  the  king). 
Read  Maynard,  Coffier,  Guy-Joli  .   .  . 

THE  CARDINAL. 
Libelers !  ^ 

THE  QUEEN. 
In  God's  name,  hold  your  peace,  monsieur! 
a  truce    to   your  bold   speech  !     One  cannot 
say  a  word,  for  you  talk  all  the  time. 

THE  CARDINAL  (bowing  to  the  ground). 

Speak. 

THE  QUEEN  (furiously). 

No,  I  say  no  more  ! 

THE  CARDINAL. 
Sire,  may  I  reply  ? 

THE  KING. 
Say  on. 

THE  CARDINAL. 

We  have  no  treaty  with  the  English.  Genoa  ? 
Three  millions  have  been  given  back  to  us. 
And  Tunis?  At  this  moment  thrice  one 
hundred  pirates  hang  trembling  in  the  ocean 
breezes  on  the  coasts  of  France.  The  Parlia- 
ment ?  A  hot-bed  of  anarchic  aspirations  ! 
I  maintain  their  privileges ;  their  decrees 
have  lost  their  force.  As  for  the  claims  put 
forward  by  the  dukes  and  princes,  let  us 
speak  of  them,  I  ask  no  better.  Fine  things 
we  shall  see.  Monsieur  de  Nevers  would 
appropriate  the  salt-tax  of  the  Rethelais. 
Beaufort  aspires  to  raise  regiments  unhindered 
in  your  Majesty's  domains.     Indeed,  he  even 


now  parades  a  corps  of  infantry  at  Nantes,  who 
march  about  with  banners  waving,  trumpets 
sounding.  Elbceuf  for  his  bastard  son  ha.s 
dreamed  of  nothing  greater  than  a  duchy  and 
a  seat  in  Parliament.  The  Comte  de  Sois- 
sons,  whom  your  power  offends,  aspires  to 
grant  patents  of  nobility.  Rohan  has  raised 
your  standard  over  Thouars,  but  beneath  his 
own.  Monsieur  de  Bouillon  demands  Sedan, 
and  that  the  king  do  bind  himself  to  force 
Turenne  to  swear  allegiance  ;  furtherrnore  the 
right  of  free  assemblage  for  the  Huguenots. 
Monsieur  le  Prince's  modesty  doth  give  us 
cause  to  tremble ;  he  but  asks,  after  so  many 
civil  wars,  your  pardon,  with  some  two  or 
three  poor  towns.  D'Epernon  has  his  eye 
on  Poitiers ;  D'Aiguillon  on  Nogent ;  Ven- 
dome  would  have  exalted  rank,  and  Conti 
cash.  Even  to  the  younger  branches  the 
whole  tree  is  mercenary.  "  Pay  my  debts," 
says  to  the  king  Monsieur  de  Mercceur. 
Chabot,  by  virtue  of  a  score  of  doughty  deeds, 
revives  his  captainry  at  the  old  chateau  of 
Blois.  And,  lastly,  to  conclude  the  catalogue. 
Monsieur  le  Chancelier  would  have  his  wages 
doubled,  and  the  dear  Due  d'Agen  intrigues 
for  nothing  more  than  to  secure  a  marshal's 
baton  for  his  brother,  the  order  for  his  son. 
So  much  for  that. 

(The  king  turns  gravely  toward  the  queen. ) 

THE  QUEEN  (to  the  cardinal). 
Pardieu  !  monsieur,  you  triumph  with  great 
ease.  Dukes,  princes,  peoples,  Paris,  Tunis, 
Genoa,  Rome,  which  is  left  to  go  its  way,  and 
London,  which  takes  heart  of  grace,  whatever 
you  may  say  and  all  that  I  have  said,  are  all 
the  same  to  me  ! — for  death  is  in  my  heart ! 
But  this  I  say,  this  I  proclaiin,  that  't  is  a 
monstrous  thing  that  a  mere  nobody,  a  name- 
less girl,  your  niece,  God  save  the  mark  ! — 
whose  ancestors,  methinks,  were  poor  clerks 


56 


THE   TWINS 


at  Palermo,  should  dare  to  cast  her  eyes  upon 
my  King  of  France  !  that  never  were  such 
horrors  seen  before  !  that  sixty  kings  and 
forty  emperors  are  smitten  by  this  man  upon 
the  cheek  !  that  Austria  and  Bourbon  are  by 
him  dragged  in  the  mire  !  that  I  shall  be  de- 
spoiled against  my  will !  that  't  is  detestable, 
impossible,  incredible,  that  you  should  take 
to  wife  a  beggarly  Mancini ;  that  I  will  not 
have  it  so  !  in  fine,  that  't  is  rank  infamy  ! 

THE  KING  (with  an  offended  air). 
Madame  .  .  . 

THE  QUEEN  (partly  facing  Mazarin). 

0  God  !  that  man  !  Ah  me  !  What  agony  I 
have  endured  !  To  forward  his  ambition  he 
would  go  to  hell !  Thus  doth  a  viper  climb 
e'en  to  the  eagle's  nest  !  O  Jesus  !  when  I 
think  how  great  the  shame,  how  many  nights 
I  've  passed  at  Saint-Germain,  alone  upon  my 
balcony,  my  head  upon  my  hand  ! 

THE  KING. 
Madame  .  .  . 

THE  QUEEN. 
Ah  !  those  were  wretched  days.     Such  mar- 
riages do  always  end  in  misery,  believe  me, 
my  dear  son  ! 

THE  CARDINAL  (with  a  reverence). 

1  know  full  well  all  that  I  owe  the  queen, 
and  hold  my  peace.  Although  my  niece  is 
of  good  family,  although  her  blood  's  enriched, 
in  very  truth,  by  the  reflection  of  the  Roman 
purple,  still  I  say  with  madame  to  my  noble- 
hearted  king  :  "  Such  marriages  sometimes  do 
end  in  misery."  And  yet  they  are  sometimes 
— from  policy — contracted — 

(He  turns  to  the  queen  and  bows  low.) 

as  her  Majesty  may  know. 

THE  QUEEN. 
Your   Eminence   has   lied  ! — Forgive    me, 
sire,  he  drives  me  to  extremities.     I  was  both 


wrong  and  right,  such  is  the  fate  of  all.  My 
God  !  Richelieu  was  much  to  be  preferred  to 
him !  Your  father  caused  me  to  be  treated 
with  respect.  That  man  doth  drive  me  mad ! 
I  am  a  woman,  and  I  know  naught  of  affairs 
of  State, 

(To  Mazarin.) 

as  you  are  well  aware. 

(To  the  king.) 

But  I  am  queen,  and  I  am  cast  aside ;  I  am 
a  mother,  and  he  steals  your  heart  from  me, 
my  son  ;  O  bitter  woe  ! 

(She  pauses ;  her  voice  is  choked  by  the  tears  which 
she  forces  back  into  her  throat,) 

You  will  not   wed  this  nameless  girl  who 

makes  soft  eyes  at  Monsieur  d'Epernon,  will 

you,  my  child  ? 

(She  sits  down,  draws  the  king  to  her  side,  and  throws 
her  arms  about  him. ) 

Come  hither. 

(She  points  to  the  impassive  Mazarin.) 
His  is  a  black  heart.  Yours  is  far  too 
tender.  Search  your  memory.  When  you 
were  but  a  child,  how  harsh  he  was  !  Do  you 
remember  ?  Shrewish,  waxing  angry  at  a 
word,  and  niggardly,  he  left  you  without  bed- 
clothes, with  no  fire  in  your  room,  in  mid 
December.  Fierce  were  the  reproaches  heaped 
on  me  therefor,  on  me.  One  day  you  were 
to  go  to  Conflans,  and  he  gave  you  such  a 
tumble-down  old  carriage  that  the  very 
people  in  the  streets  cried  shame  upon  it.  As 
he  wished  to  reign,  and  render  no  account, 
he  ordered,  sire,  that  those  things  which 
would  expand  your  intellect  should  not  be 
taught  you.  'T  was  his  will  that  you  should 
know  no  history.  He  burdened  Paris  with 
inglorious  war,  a  civil  conflict,  impious  and 
pitiless,  which  forced  you,  a  poor,  frightened 
child,  to  fly  !  Your  people  sufl"ered.  He 
despoils  them  !  aye,  he  starves  them  !  Surely 
you  cannot    forget   that   wretched   girl   who 


ACT  III— SCENE  I 


57 


died  of  hunger  on  the  bridge  at  Melun. 
Prince  and  duke  he  claimed  to  be,  albeit 
he  was  neither  one  nor  t'other.  He  basely 
took  from  you  the  money  given  you  by 
Monsieur  de  Vieuville.  At  night  you  slept 
uneasily,because  you  felt  him  near  you.  Then 
his  senseless  vanity  so  far  o'er-reached  itself  as 
to  affect  a  retinue  to  rival  yours.  When  he 
appeared,  attended  by  the  noise  of  jangling 
swords,  do  you  remember?  the  audacious 
uproar  roused  you  from  your  sleep,  all  trem- 
bling in  the  darkness, — you,  the  king,  his  king, 
head  of  your  family  !  Said  you  :  "  He  makes 
much  clatter  when  he  passes  ! ' ' 

(She  kisses  the  king,  who  submits  to  her  caresses  with 
evident  impatience,  and  keeps  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
cardinal,  as  if  looking  to  him  for  inspiration  and 
counsel.) 

Sire,  you  are  king  !   you  must  reflect  that 

here   in    France   the   people   do   not   love  a 

stranger's  yoke.     He  's  an  Italian. 

THE  KING. 
And  you  are  a  Spaniard. 

THE  QUEEN  (raising  her  head,  and  wiping  away  a 
tear). 

I  forgive  you,  child,  that  cruel  word,  which 

issues  from  your  mouth  but  from  his  heart. 

(With  an  indignant  glance  at  Mazarin. ) 

He   Stands   there,   smiling   like   a   jeering 

demon  ! 

(.She  buries  her  face  in  her  hands  and  weeps.) 
Oh  !   .   .  . 

(The  cardinal,  toying  with  the  great  watch  he  wears 
beneath  his  gown,  causes  it  to  strike  as  if  by  inad- 
vertence. ) 


THE  KING  (coldly). 
Madame,  't  is  late. 

THE  QUEEN. 
True,  so  it  is.     The  room  is  ready.     Let  us 
retire.     Come  and  we  will  minister  to   you. 
My  women  shall  attend  upon  the  king. 

(Turning  to  the  cardinal.) 
This  is  my  right. 

(Drawing  the  king  between  her  knees.) 

My  own  dear  little  Louis,  as  we  used  to  do, 
thou  knowest  !  .  .  . 

THE  KING. 
No,  I  will   return  to   the   chateau.      Mid- 
night   is    striking.     Monsieur   de   Villequier 
will  answer  for  my  safety  ;    and  I  kiss  your 
Majesty's  hand. 

(To  Mazarin.) 

Come,  monsieur. 

THE  QUEEN  (gazing  at  the  floor,  without  looking  up 
at  the  king). 

Alas! 

(Mazarin  approaches  the  table  and  takes  a  candlestick. 
At  the  same  time  he  leans  over  to  the  queen. ) 

THE  CARDINAL  (in  an  undertone  to  the  queen). 

We  needs  must  have  an  explanation,  undis- 
turbed.    I  will  return  anon. 

(The  king  kisses  the  queen's  hand,  bows  low  to  her 
and  takes  his  leave,  preceded  by  the  cardinal  carrying 
the  light.) 


58 


THE   TWINS 


SCENE   II 

THE  QUEEN,  alone;  afterward  DAME  CLAUDE. 


THE  QUEEN. 

Rather  than  await  tliee,  viper,  may  I  die ! 

The  traitor !  he  would  come  and  flout  me  to 

my  face  !     Upon  my  word  ! 

(She  rings.     Dame  Claude,  one  of  her  women,  appears 
at  the  door  in  the  jog-piece  at  the  right.) 

Claude,  is  my  bed  made  ready  ? 

DAME  CLAUDE  (pointing  to  the  room  from  which 
she  came). 

Yes,  madame,  in  yonder  room. 
THE  QUEEN  (at  the  front  of  the  stage,  musing). 

The  king  's  my  son  no  more.  The  court  is 
Mazarinist  to  the  core.  That  man  would 
place  his  foot  upon  my  breast,  in  order  that  my 
son  may  laugh  !     My  friends  are  all  shut  out. 


(A  pause  while  she  is  lost  in  thought.) 

If  Monsieur^  were  but  two  years  older  ! 

(She  reflects  more  deeply  than  ever.) 

Or— if  .   .   . 

(Raising  her  head.) 

These  are  terrifying  thoughts. 

(She  enters  the  adjoining  room,  preceded  by  Dame 
Claude,  who  has  taken  the  other  candlestick.) 

( A  moment  of  silence.  The  room  is  once  more  empty 
and  dark.  Suddenly  in  the  jog-piece  at  the  left,  a 
panel  of  the  wainscoting,  in  appearance  like  all  the 
others,  turns  upon  itself,  and  discloses  an  entrance 
which  was  masked  by  it.  It  seems  to  open  upon  a 
narrow  stairway.  A  man  in  dark  clothes  ascends, 
wrapped  in  a  cloak,  with  a  dark  lantern  in  his  hand. 
It  is  Comte  Jean.  He  enters,  leaving  the  panel  opefl" 
behind  him.) 


ACT  II I—SCENE  III 


59 


SCENE   III 

COMTE  JEAN;   afterward  THE  MASK  and  ALIX. 


COMTE  JEAN. 
At  last ! 

(He  looks  about.) 

Ten  years !  how  many  things  have  taken 
place  !  how  many  tears  I  've  shed  in  this  ill- 
fated  room  !  Still  the  same  table  and  the 
same  arm-chair !  Ten  years  have  passed  !  ten 
centuries  !  Poor  woman  !  O,  ye  walls,  save 
you  none  know  my  heart.  Alone  on  earth  do 
I  endure  the  knowledge  of  the  woe  I  've  suf- 
fered and  the  woe  I  've  wrought !  But  I 
have  not  the  time  to  weep  o'er  my  own  fate. 
We  must  make  haste. 

(He  turns  toward  the  open  panel,  and  leans  over  the 
dark  staircase.) 

This  is  the  way.     Come  up. 

(Enters  the  Mask  ^Tapped  in  a  cloak,  and  with  a 
broad-brimmed  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes ; 
Alix  accompanies  him.) 

THE  MASK  (throwing  hat  and  cloak  upon  the  floor). 
I  love  thee,  Alix  !     I  am  free  !    Henceforth 
the  world  is  ours  ! 

(To  Comte  Jean.) 
Oh  !  relieve  me  from  this  hideous  mask  ! 

COMTE  JEAN. 
At  once. 

(He  motions  to  the  Mask  to  sit  down,  then  produces  a 
file  from  the  knapsack,  and  sets  about  filing  off  the 
padlock.) 

THE  MASK. 

At  last. — But — where  are  we? 

COMTE  JEAN. 
Safe  in  the  keeping  of  the  dead,  near  God, 
and  far  from  men.     A  saintly,  kindly  shade 


keeps  watch  upon  us  here,  and  an  old  soldier 

is  your  guide. 

(Pointing  to  Alix,  who  upon  entering  kneels  in  silence 
before  a  prie-Dieu  in  the  comer  of  the  stage.) 

Yonder   's  an  angel  on  her  knees.      Fear 

naught. 

THE  MASK. 

Accept  my  thanks. 

COMTE  JEAN. 

To-morrow  we  will  fly  toward  the  frontier. 

In  two  days  we  shall  be  at  Mezieres.     Our 

friends  will  take  up  arms  for  us.     Meanwhile 

we  quietly  must  pass  the  night  in  this  deserted 

castle. 

(As  he  is  speaking,  he   completes  the  task  of  filing 

through  the  lock  which  at  last  yields,  and  the  mask 

opens.) 

There ! 

(He  removes   the   mask   and  places   it  upon   a  small 
table  in  the  corner  of  the  room. ) 

(When  the  mask  is  removed,  the  prisoner  stands  for  a 
moment  as  if  dazed  with  happiness,  and  seems  to 
experience  an  indescribable  joy  in  breathing  freely. 
He  is  a  handsome  youth  of  about  sixteen.) 

THE  PRISONER. 
O  God! 

ALIX  (gazing  at  him). 

How  beautiful  he  is  !  More  beautiful  than 
in  my  dream  ! 

THE  PRISONER. 

The  shadow  which  enveloped  me,  the 
frightful  shadow  vanishes.  Once  more  I  hold 
my  head  erect,  proudly  exulting  in  the  air 
and  light  and  in  my  freedom  !     Everything  is 


6o 


THE   TWINS 


lovely  in  my  sight !  I  would  that  I  could 
seize  and  hold  each  passing  object.  Alix  ! 
Alix  !  now  I  see  with  my  whole  face  !  Air  ! 
Air  on  every  side  !  Now  I  can  kiss  thy  hand 
and  go  where'er  I  will !  Is  this  myself?  Can 
it  be  true  ?  How  soft  the  night !  Thy  smile 
intoxicates  me  and  all  nature  speaks  with  all 
its  myriad  voices  to  my  ravished  senses  !  Ah  ! 
I  see  !  I  hear  !  I  breathe  !  I  live  !  Alix  ! 
at  last  I  come  forth  from  the  sunless  cloud. 
Oh  !  look  at  me  !   I  feel  that  I  'm  transfigured  ! 

COMTE  JEAN  (who  has  not  taken  his  eyes  from  the 
prisoner's  face,  and  who  seems  lost  in  thought). 

'T  is  a  wonderful  resemblance  ! 

THE  PRISONER  (going  to  the  window,  and  impetu- 
ously throwing  it  open). 

Oh !  the  starry  heaven !  Yes,  I  was  as 
one  dead  !  The  world  's  unveiled  to  me  ! 
That  mask  was  hell !  Come  hither  to  the 
window. 

(He  leads  Alix  to  the  window.) 
How  lovely   are   the    trees  !       The   whole 
world  smiles  and  everything  doth  touch  me 
to  the  heart !     How  soft  the  breeze !     Oh ! 
but  't  is  marvelous  ! 


Poor  love ! 


ALIX. 


COMTE  JEAN  (pensively). 
Now  do  I  understand  the  mask. 

THE  PRISONER  (excitedly). 
My  Alix,  let  us  fly  !  yes,  let  us  fly  together 
to  some  blessed  land,  where  we  need  never 
fear,  where  we  shall  have  God's  nature  to  our- 
selves !  The  stars  will  shine  like  this — in  the 
blue  sky  ;  the  woods  will  nod  their  heads,  as 
now,  and  welcome  us  with  joyful  acclama- 
tions ;  we  will  drink  our  fill  of  the  pure  air, 
which  cools  the  blood,  and  we  will  love  each 
other  .   .  . 


(He  falls  upon  his  knees  with  his  arms  about  Alix's 
waist. ) 

Thanks  be  to  thee,  O  God  Omnipotent ! 


COMTE  JEAN  (to  the  prisoner). 

Time  presses.  We  tiiust  needs  take  heed  to 
our  departure. 

(To  Alix.) 

Come,  madame,  you  know  where  be  the 
keys ;  and  let  us  go  where  Tagus  waits  for  us 
below. 

(To  the  prisoner.) 

We  will  return  for  you. 

(Exeunt  Comte  Jean  and  Alix  through  the  panel  which 
closes  behind  them.) 

(The  prisoner,  left  alone,  fixes  his   eyes   ecstatically 
upon  the  sky. ) 

THE  PRLSONER. 

O  glorious  sky  !  To-morrow  I  shall  proudly 
walk  beneath  thy  broad  expanse.  And  I 
shall  be  like  any  other  man,  and  I  shall 
pass  along  the  road  like  all  who  go  their 
way  at  liberty,  not  thinking  that  sometimes 
a  prisoner  doth  watch  them  as  they  pass ! 
O  bliss ! 

(Footsteps  in  the  gallery  at  the  back  of  the  stage.     He 
turns  about  in  dismay.) 

But  I  hear  steps. 

(He  goes  to  the  door  at  the  back  and  looks  out.) 

No,  nothing  stirs. 

(A  light  appeai-s  in   the   gallery.     He  fixes  his  eyes 
upon  it  in  terror. ) 

Who  is  this  pale-faced  man  in  the  red  wind- 
ing-sheet?— Ah!  there  are  two. — The  other 
is  in  black. — They  come  in  this  direction  ! 
Whither  shall  I  fly  ? 

( He  runs  to  the  door  by  which  he  entered  and  tries  in 
v.ain  to  open  it. ) 

This  door  ?     'T  is  locked  1 


ACT  III—SCENE  III 


6i 


(He  runs  to  the  door  at  the  right.     That  also  resists  his 
efforts. ) 

The  other,  too  ! 

( He  goes  behind  the  screen,  which  he  folds  back  so 
that  it  conceals  him.) 

Just  Heaven  ! 


(Enters  the  Cardinal,  accompanied  by  Chandenier, 
captain  of  his  gendarmes.  Chandenier  carries  in  onJ 
hand  a  large  portfolio,  and  in  the  other  a  candela- 
brum with  branches.  The  Cardinal  is  leaning  upon 
Chandenier's  arm;  he  looks  pale  and  ill, and  coughs 
at  intervals,  putting  his  hand  to  his  breast.  He  c^sts 
a  glance  about  the  salon  and  seems  surprised  to  find 
no  one  there.) 


62 


THE   TWINS 


SCENE   IV 

THE  CARDINAL,  CHANDENIER,  THE    PRISONER  (in  hiding). 


THE  CARDINAL. 

No  one  here  !     Aha  ! 

(To  Chandenier.) 

I  hazard  much  in  coming  hither.     Place  a 
hundred  of  my  guards  about  the  castle. 

THE    PRISONER    (peering   out    from  behind   the 
screen). 

Who    are    these    two    demons?     God    in 

heaven  !     I  am  lost ! 

THE  CARDINAL. 

How  now  !  her  Majesty  did  not  await  my 
coming. 

CHANDENIER. 

Is  she  angry  ? 

THE  CARDINAL. 

Why  should  we  distress  ourselves  for  that  ? 
My  friend,  in  the  old  days  it  was  a  queenly 
wrath,  but  now  't  is  nothing  but  a  vi^oman's 
shrieks.  Remain  with  thy  lieutenant  in  the 
corridor,  I  can  conveniently  await  till  morning 
here  the  queen's  awakening,  and  work  mean- 
while. 'T  is  most  essential  that  I  speak  with 
her.  'T  is  well.  Place  everything  upon  the 
table. 

(Chandenier  places  the  candlestick  and  the  portfolio 
on  the  table.) 

By  the  way,  to  guard  against  all  mishap, 

leave  me  thy  dagger. 

(Chandenier  takes  the  dagger  from  his  belt  and  obeys, 
then  goes  out  at  a  sign  from  the  Cardinal. ) 


THE    CARDINAL    (playing  with   the   dagger,   and 
trying  its  edge  upon  his  finger). 

Who  can  say  ?     Prudence  is  the  mother  of 

security. 

(He  places  the  dagger  upon  the  table.) 

THE  PRISONER  (who  has  watched  all  the  proceed- 
ings with  dismay,  closing  the  screen). 

O  God  !  preserve  me  ! 

( As  soon  as  Chandenier  has  disappeared,  the  Cardinal 
takes  a  small  key  from  his  belt  and  opens  the  port- 
folio, the  cover  of  which  has  a  glass  on  the  inner 
side  and  becomes  a  mirror  as  it  is  thrown  back. 
The  portfolio  thus  opened  forms  a  desk.  In  one 
corner  is  a  writing-case,  in  the  other  a  jar  of  rouge 
with  its  accessories.  A  map  protrudes  from  the 
portfolio.  It  is  a  map  of  Europe.  The  Cardinal 
unrolls  it,  glances  at  it  for  a  few  seconds,  then  stands 
erect,  coughing.) 

THE  CARDINAL  (musing). 
Health    is   the  one   thing   that   eludes  my 
grasp.     Power  I  have,  wealth,  honor,  every- 
thing save  life !     I  feel  that  I  am  dying. 

(Playing  with  the  dagger.) 

Ah !  how  happy  was  I  when  I  was  a  mus- 
keteer !  when  I  was  twenty-five  ! 
(He  looks  in  the  mirror.) 
My  face  is  ghastly. 

(He  applies  rouge   to  his  cheeks,  then  looks  in  the 
mirror  for  a  moment  and  falls  to  musing  again.) 

How  to  bring  about  this  marriage?  It  will 
surely  fail !  All  these  affronts  will  soon  repel 
the  king.  Oh  well !  then  we  will  take  another. 
Charles  the  Second,  pretender  to  the  throne 
of  England  ;  or  the  Infant,  whom    Jolin  of 


ACT  III— SCENE  IV 


63 


Portugal,  the  ruler  of  the  sea,  doth  through 
the  Holy  Father  offer  me ;  or  Conti. — We 
shall  see. — 'T  would  be  a  bitter  pill  to  swal- 
low !  But  no  matter  !  I  am  master,  and  on 
me  doth  everything  depend  ! 

(Putting  his  hand  to  his  chest.) 

This  pain  ! 

(He  coughs.) 

I  must  to  work  !     To  do  great  deeds  is  to. 

forget  that  one  must  die. 

(He  unrolls  the  map  and  examines  it  with  profound 
attention. ) 

No  more  reverses  !  France,  securing  for 
herself  tranquillity,  has  tranquillized  the  world. 

(He  leans  over  the  map,  then  raises  his  head.) 

The  sword  is  insolent,  the  robe  is  jealous, 
but  I  have  brought  everything  beneath  my 
yoke.  Bordeaux,  Toulouse,  Rennes, — Paris  ! 
— Paris  !  the  mighty  hydra  !  No  more  raging 
factions !  no  more  combats  ! 

( He  unfolds  a  letter.) 

Let  us  see  what  has  the  Emperor  to  offer. 

(Glancing  over  the  letter.) 

Good.  He  seeks  thus  to  extinguish  every 
spark.     He  yields. 

(Looking  down  upon  the  map.) 

Pending  the  fall  of  Brussels  and  Besan^on, 
we  will  take  Brisach,  Alsace  and  the  Three 
Bishoprics.  In  due  time  I  will  carry  out  my 
plans,  still  unrevealed.  From  Rhine  to 
Pyrenees  must  France  extend.  Paris,  which 
may  be  reached  in  two  or  three  days'  march, 
is  almost,  so  to  speak,  on  the  frontier.  It 
should  be  in  the  centre.  I  will  gain  my 
object  without  noise  and  without  war. 
(He  looks  up  at  the  portrait  of  Cardinal  Richelieu.) 

O  Richelieu  !  We  shall  in  turn  have  done 
a  mighty  work  ;  he  made  the  king,  and  I  am 
building  France. 

(Turning  his  eyes  upon  the  map.) 

But  naught  is  done  as  yet. 


(He  rises.) 
My  edifice,  more  vast  than  any  realm,  more 
perfect  than  a  king,  the  dream  which  hath  so 
many  nights  bedazzled  my  poor  eyes,  the  map 
whereon  I  all  my  toil  have  spent,  the  map 
which  God,  before  he  moulded  us  from  clay, 
did  draw  with  capes  and  seas  and  mountain- 
chains  and  streams ;  which  after  Philip  Second 
Richelieu  bequeathed  to  me  and  which  in 
thought  I  have  completed  ;  in  a  word,  the 
work  I  have  in  hand  to  finish,  and  which  now 
my  will  directs,  is  thou,  O  Europe,  whom 
methinks  I  see  hanging  above  my  head,  who 
dost  thyself  unfold  before  my  startled  gaze,  a 
mammoth  arch  whereof  France  is  the  key- 
stone ! 

(Returning  to  the  map. ) 

Germany  from  hour  to  hour  loses  heart ; 
Spain  parts  with  her  accretions ;  by  the  peace 
of  Munster  France  becomes  supreme.  The 
lion  has  turned  cat,  the  Emperor  doth  fawn  on 
us.  The  North  doth  bend  its  knee  but  half- 
way to  the  ground  before  the  Holy  Empire, 
and  turns  its  face  to  us.  The  Elector  of 
Triers  alone  still  hesitates  to  give  in  his 
adhesion  to  my  plan.  He  is  a  priest  and  well 
along  in  years.  How  can  I  best  attack  him  ? 
Pardieu  !  through  the  house  of  Deux-Ponts,  to 
which  he  belongs. 

( Musing. ) 

Change  the  ambassador. — Or  bribe  some 
servant. — The  Sultan  is  a  boy  of  twelve,  his 
empire  is  falling  to  decay.  Each  state  has  its 
own  overhanging  wall  of  rock ;  Denmark  has 
Stockholm,  Poland,  Moscow.  I  have  crushed 
the  Swedes.  I  hold  the  Muscovite  Grand  Duke 
in  leash,  and  lii^iit  his  crusade  to  sending  to 
the  Doge  an  embassy.  I  keep  a  watchful  eye 
upon  Turin,  a  ring  that  oft  doth  break. — 
Farnese,  Gonzague,  and  Este,  houses  that  are 
dying  out ! — At  Parma  the  old  duke  will  die 
a  sudden   death ;    at   Mantua  a   duenna,   at 


64 


THE   TWINS 


Modena  a  mere  child  ;  I  am  already  master, 
without  tumult  or  commotion.  Through  their 
doges  the  republics  all  are  mine.  I  hold,  for 
Brutus'  virtue  grows  more  human,  Genoa 
through  Paoll,  Venice  through  Cornaro.  Most 
discerning  land  ! — the  dagger,  but  the  scaffold 
never.  As  for  the  petty  states,  we  must, 
despite  the  diplomats,  leave  the  Dalmatians 
for  a  toy  Ragusa,  Lubeck  to  the  Germans. 
Thus  doth  everything  proceed  as  I  would  have 
it,  all  goes  well,  and  naught  is  doubtful. 
There  are  two  dark  spots,  but  two,  in  this 
fair,  azure  sky ;  Madrid  which  harbors  plotters ; 
London  which  resists  my  will ;  Cromwell  the 
lucky  madman  ;  Philip  the  melancholy  fool. 
— A  fig  for  them  ! 

(Looking  at  the  map.) 

But  Rome !  .  .   . 

(Musing.) 
O  city  bending  'neatli  the  weight  of  years, 
which  speaks  but  understands  not,  leans  but 
falls  not,  so  that  his  mind  who  looks  upon  it 
wavers  'twixt  the  Tower  of  Babel  and  the 
Tower  of  Pisa ! 

(Raising  his  head.) 

Let  US  on  the  one  hand  state  the  question 
and  on  the  other  hand  support  our  reasoning ! 
Outside  of  Europe  France  has  vast  appen- 
dages. France  everywhere  is  on  the  watch. 
Strong,  fortunate,  well-armed,  she  stamps  out 
as  she  passes  every  spark  of  war.  With 
Kurdistan  the  Persian  would  take  Candahar 
from  the  Great  Mogul,  and  from  the  Sul- 
tan Babylon ;    but  we  cried  halt.     Already, 


from  the  Tigris  to  the  Ganges,  we  are  sup- 
planting in  the  markets  the  Slavonian  and 
Armenian  traders.  We  are  fast  becoming 
masters  everywhere  :  in  India  we  have  troops, 
in  China  Jesuits.  Our  engines  of  war  are 
built  in  every  place  ;  a  never-failing  method  of 
securing  mastery  without  a  struggle.  I  am 
old,  crushed  by  the  weight  of  years,  my  worst 
enemies;  e'en  now  I  see  before  me  in  the 
darkness,  whereunto  my  steps  are  slowly 
tending,  something  yawning  wide,  that  is 
much  like  an  open  grave.  Ah,  well !  if  the 
dread  hour  in  very  truth  draws  nigh,  when 
God  shall  ask  me  lying  in  my  shroud  :  "  What 
hast  thou  done?"  lean  reply:  "O  God, 
the  floods  did  beat  upon  my  head ;  when  I 
came  on  the  stage,  the  tempest  raged  on  every 
side ;  the  strife  was  on  betwixt  the  ideas  of 
the  old  days  and  the  new ;  a  fearful  strife,  as 
thou  dost  know  !  The  first  onslaught  was 
made  by  Louis  the  Eleventh  ;  Francois  First 
enlarged  the  breach,  but  perished  at  the  work 
before  the  giant  fell ;  the  end  of  the  great 
combat  Richelieu  did  not  live  to  see;  those 
men,  who  followed  one  and  all  their  lofty 
destiny,  made  war.     I  have  brought  peace  to 

the  whole  world  !" 

(Rising.) 

Aye  !    peace    to    the    whole    world  ! — oh  ! 

dazzling  spectacle  !   In  this  thrice  sacred  work 

each  day  I  steadily  press  on.     The  King  of 

France  is  my  transcendent  tool.     Now  I  have 

done,  I  stand  upon  the  summit !     No  more 

obstacles  to  overcome  !  no  reefs  to  shun  ! 


NOTES  65 


NOTES 


TI/E  TWINS  {LES  JUMEAUX),  was  originally  called  LE  COMTE  JEAN. 
The  manuscript  has  upon   the  first  page  of  the  first  act  the  date :  July  26,  iSjc). 

The  first  act  was  finished  August  8.     The  second  act  begun  August  10,  and  finished  August  15.     The 
third  act  was  begun  August   17.     On  the  last  page  is  this  note:    Interrupted  by  illness  August  2j. 


'  A  quotation  from  the  Cinna  of  Corneille. 

"^Monsieur  was  the  title  given  to  the  brother  of  a  l<ing  of  France  ;  in  this  case  the  reference  is  to  Philippe, 
Due  d'Orleans,  younger  brother  of  Louis  XIV.  and  father  of  the  famous  Regent. 


66  THE   TWINS 


TRANSLATOR'S    NOTE  TO  THE  TWINS 


The  identity  of  the  famous  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  has  never  been  established,  and  must  go  down  to  posterity 
side  by  side  with  the  authorship  of  the  letters  of  Junius,  as  a  problem  destined  never  to  be  solved.  Conjectures 
and  theories  are  about  as  numerous  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other.  The  various  theories  concerning  the  myste- 
rious personage  who  is  supposed  to  have  been  confined  so  many  years  under  such  mysterious  circumstances,  first 
at  lie  Sainte-Marguerite,  and  afterward  at  the  Bastile,  have  been  several  times  published  in  juxtaposition ;  they 
may  be  found  collected  in  an  article  usually  published  with  the  Crimes  Celebres  of  M.  Alexandre  Dumas,  p4re, 
and  in  a  more  recent  work  by  M.  Topin.  The  theory  adopted  by  Victor  Hugo  as  the  basis  of  the  plot  of  The 
Twins  has  always  had  many  adherents.  The  existence  of  a  twin  brother  to  Louis  XIV.  was  deemed  by  Voltaire 
to  furnish  the  solution  of  the  riddle,  and  that  solution  was  adopted  by  M.  Dumas  in  the  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne. 

It  is  impossible  to  discover  why  the  play  was  never  finished. 

M.  Edmond  Eire,  in  his  "Victor  Hugo  apr^s  1830,"  says: 

"  The  following  explanation  was  given  by  Victor  Hugo,  and  reproduced  by  one  of  his  secretaries,  M.  Richard 
Lesclide. 

"  The  poet,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  spoke  prematurely  of  his  work.  He  read  some  scenes  from  it  at  a 
very  small  gathering  of  his  most  intimate  friends,  at  which  Louis  Boulanger  was  present.  On  the  same  evening 
Louis  Boulanger,  still  under  the  effect  of  the  deep  impression  the  reading  made  upon  him,  could  not  forbear  to 
mention  the  Master's  latest  work  before  a  small  group  of  whom  Alexandre  Dumas  piire  was  one.  The  latter 
found  the  subject  to  his  taste,  and,  without  losing  an  hour,  constructed  a  romance  upon  the  lines  of  Hugo's 
drama ;  from  TJie  Twins  he  made  the  Vicomte  i/e  Bragelonne. 

"  Upon  learning  Louis  Boulanger's  indiscretion  and  its  results,  Victor  Hugo  flew  into  a  towering  rage,  and 
threw  the  manuscript  of  T/ie  Twins  into  the  fire.  '  No,'  says  Madame  Drouet,  who  was  in  the  poet's  study  while 
he  told  the  story  to  his  secretary,  '  no,  you  didn't  throw  your  manuscript  into  the  fire  ;  you  carried  it  away  and 
stowed  it  in  some  corner,  where  it  will  be  found  one  day  or  another.'  " 

The  only  mention  of  The  Twins  in  the  work  entitled  "  Victor  Hugo  Raconte  par  un  Temoin  de  sa  Vie,"  is 
in  these  words : 

"  M.  Victor  Hugo,  after  77/1?  Burgraves,  abandoned  the  stage,  although  he  had  had  a  drama  almost  finished 
since  1838"  (1839). 

"  The  '  7tvKo/« '  (witness)  says  M.  Biri,  whose  very  strong  antipathy  to  his  subject  has  been  heretofore 
noticed  in  these  notes,  "  was  careful  not  to  put  forward  the  explanation  we  have  just  read.  For  at  that  time 
Alexandre  Dumas  was  still  living.  They  waited  until  his  death  before  accusing  him,  not  of  a  simple  plagiarism 
made  at  his  own  risk,  but  of  a  downright  abuse  of  confidence,  a  shameful  act  of  treachery." 

The  author  from  whom  we  quote  alleges  the  fact  that  the  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne  did  not  appear  until  1847 
[^Les  Trois  Afousquetaires  and  Vingt  Aus  Apris  to  which  it  forms  the  .sequel,  being  of  1844  and  1845  respectively), 
as  conclusive  evidence  of  the  falseness  of  the  charge. 

The  Twins  was  published  in  1S89  among  the  GLtivrcs  Inedites  of  Victor  Hugo. 


AMY  ROBSART 


|.i.«''S«P.  J!         X 


^ 


^% 


h 


^^^Un^uui    J.'-    ^>tytu^i 


/fltui.cnofi  'ic  ■ 


TflA8aOfl   YMA 


V  3H338      HTHUOH  TDA 

larijfil  7ijO     .13189313 J  lo  hcS  (ifalftuo' ,VltinaT^T)2  bB3rI  iriOY  Jon  o?.\r.^ 
.bnsci  Jon  bluo-r/  JcriJ  ?.br,^tl  3d}  "flo  )rio  .xiomarri  euonjgulli  lo  ,rijrt^ii3  '(inoH 
33irja  iijo  lo  aianoiarisq  ncrnSjIfnsg  ^rfJ  }«rf3  fi  feJ  lyTpcOifiJ^oo  boog  '(rn  ,nobanijH 
aid  (jrj  3viy  aiirl  JsJ     .yboJain  ni   bsofilq  sd  riBrri  airi)  Jsl    ;  333nibB3T  ni  31b 

In  1828  Victor  Hug6"^^W^cLiAM^h,llB^/^'\^^M  'M^lf^'V^fh  Marion 
He  Zl??«?.'"  ?f'/-^i-^2&fe"^'?if'l?6\''K¥°h?iPa^li?fiT''5^?e?ai'''j^^^  lfl'a"HlHtten  one, 

under  circumstances  wnich  are  thus  related  by  the  author  of  Victor  Htigo  Kaconte  par  un 
iemoin  de  sa  Vie.  .YMA 

!''(lfog*Iorf=3r  ^  tl^lft^iefteji^fenja^gfti^,  !li^§iS^the%(JjgB}g„d^!^  his  father  at 
Blois,  Victor. Hugo,  alone  in]fl^^vgrl^«!9^3irq«;Wif3i  ^IMclH%fecfeiS{DFfig9%(4'fPBVP^iai'rying, 
was  seeking  in  every  direction  the  money  which  would  biing  happiness  within  his  reach, 
M.  Soumet  proposed  to  him  that  they  should  together  write  a  play  based  upon  one  of 
Walter  Scott's  novels,  Kenilworth.  M.  Soumet  was  to  arrange  the  plot,  M.  Victor  Hugo 
to  write  the  first  three  acts,  and  M.  Soumet  the  last  two. 

"  M.  Victor   Hugo  did  his  part;    but,  when    M.  Soumet  read    his  three  acts,  he  was 

only  half  satisfied :    he  did  not  approve  the  combination  of  tragedy  and  comedy,  and  he 

wanted  to  cut  out  all  that  was  not  grave  and  serious.     M.  Victor  Hugo  cited  Shakespeare 

as  a  precedent ;    but  at  that   time   English   actors    had   not  made    Shakespeare   popular  in 

Paris,  and    M.  Soumet  claimed    that,  although    his   plays  were   good   reading,  they  would 

not   stand   the   test   of  representation ;    that   Hamlet  and   Othello,   moreover,  were   rather 

sublime   efforts,    beautiful    monstrosities,  than    chefs-d'oeuvre ;    that   a    play  must   make    its 

choice,  to  arouse   laughter   or  weeping.     The  collaborators,  being  unable  to  agree,  parted 

on    the    best   of  terms ;    each  of   them  took  with    him    the    acts    he    had  written    and    his 

69 


■:j^s^ 


.AMY   R'pBSART 


ACT   FOURTH      SCENE   V 


fLIV.MiETn. 

^  *\  '  "■    ,  . 

Raise  noi   ^  otir  licad  "9C>"i^¥onilly.  Dudley, -Earl  nl  Leicester.     Our  father  ■ 
lTetiry'Ki;;lilh,  of  illustrious  merliory,  cut  offi'the  head     that  ^yonlll   iu)t  bend.' 
Himsdun,  my  good  cousin,  look  to  itirhat  traB>gentleman  pensioners  'ii  dur  suite 
are  in  readiness;    let  this  man   be  placei   in  custudv.     Let  him  ijive  up  his 
i^yord,  and  let  it  be  done  with  all  speed  !     I  liave  spoken. 

^Munsdbii  ili.iws  liis  sword;   tlirf    i;.  iitK-iiicii  advance  toward  I-eieester,  wlio;[;uid-  calm  aj;j 
;  unmoved.      Mi      'ivjwc  herself  nl  the  queen's.feet.  ! 


AMY. 


i 


No  !    no.  niadame  !      iMei'  )■  !  justice  !      lie  i:^  not  guilty  !   he  i:-  n<>i  guilty  ■! 
No  oile  (.an  accuse  the  lioMj  l^'ail  of  Leicester  in  nuc.^ht  ! 


lii-.     (mu^^l     Ul^  ■ 


//(aneJt/*n   ->i 


PREFACE 

BY     THE     EDITORS 

In  1828  Victor  Hugo  had  just  completed  Cromwell,  and  was  about  to  write  Marion 
de  Lorme.  Cromwell  was  not  his  first  drama ;  several  years  earlier  he  had  written  one, 
under  circumstances  which  are  thus  related  by  the  author  of  Victor  Hugo  Raconte  par  un 
temoin  Je  sa  Vie. 

"  *  *  *  At  the  age  of  nineteen,  when,  his  mother  being  dead  and  his  father  at 
Blois,  Victor  Hugo,  alone  in  the  world  and  prevented  by  his  lack  of  means  from  marrying, 
was  seeking  in  every  direction  the  money  which  would  bring  happiness  within  his  reach, 
M.  Soumet  proposed  to  him  that  they  should  together  write  a  play  based  upon  one  of 
Walter  Scott's  novels,  Kenilworth.  M.  Soumet  was  to  arrange  the  plot,  M.  Victor  Hugo 
to  write  the  first  three  acts,  and   M.  Soumet  the  last  two. 

"  M.  Victor    Hugo  did  his  part;    but,  when    M.  Soumet  read    his  three  acts,  he  was 

only  half  satisfied  :    he  did  not  approve  the  combination  of  tragedy  and  comedy,  and  he 

wanted  to  cut  out  all  that  was  not  grave  and  serious.     M.  Victor  Hugo  cited  Shakespeare 

as  a  precedent ;    but  at  that   time    English   actors    had   not  made    Shakespeare   popular  in 

Paris,  and    M.  Soumet  claimed    that,  although    his   plays  were   good   reading,  they  would 

not   stand    the   test    of  representation ;    that    Hamlet  and   Othello,   moreover,  were   rather 

sublime   efforts,    beautiful    monstrosities,  than    chefs-d'oeuvre;    that   a    play  must   make    its 

choice,  to  arouse   laughter   or  weeping.     The  collaborators,  being  unable  to  agree,  parted 

on    the   best   of   terms ;    each  of   them  took  with    him    the   acts    he    had  written    and    his 

69 


70  PREFACE 


independence,  and  completed  his  play  as  he  chose.  M.  Souniet  produced  Emilia,  which, 
when  played  at  the-  Theatre-Francais  by  Mile.  Mars,  had  a  sort  of  half-success.  M.  Victor 
Hugo  completed  his  Amy  Robsart  according  to  his  own  ideas,  freely  mingling  comedy  and 
tragedy  therein." 

Six  years  had  passed,  and  M.  Hugo  had  entirely  forgotten  his  first  play,  wlien  the 
younger  of  his  two  brothers-in-law,  Paul  Foucher,  who  had  a  strong  inclination  for  the 
stage,  begged  him  to  let  him  read  it.  Alexandre  Soumet  had  mentioned  it  to  him 
the  day  before  as  a  singularly  interesting  piece  of  work. 

"It  startled  me  a  little  at  the  time,"  said  Soumet,  "and  there  are  many  audacious 
passages  in  it  which  I  myself  would  not  venture  to  father  even  now;  but,  as  English 
dramas  have  succeeded,  I  don't  see  why  that  should  not  succeed.  If  I  were  Victor  Hugo 
I  would  not  throw  away  a  play  in  which  there  are  some  very  fine  scenes." 

Paul  Foucher,  after  reading  the  drama,  insisted  that  Victor  Hugo  should  follow 
Soumet's  advice.  But  Hugo,  who  had  already  become  famous,  did  not  care  to  put  his 
name  to  a  play  whose  subject  was  borrowed  from  somebody  else. 

"Very  well,"  said  Paul  Foucher,  "if  you  don't  wish  to  have  it  produced  under  your 
name,  let  it  be  produced  under  mine.  You  will  do  me  a  great  service,  for  such  a  play 
will  bring  my  name  forward,  and  throw  the  stage-doors  wide  open  to  me." 

Victor  Hugo  consented,  glad  to  oblige  his  brother-in-law,  and  no  less  glad  perhaps 
to  make  this  trial  of  the  theatre  and  the  public. 

But  the  play  was  not  produced  as  the  author  wrote  it  at  the  age  of  nineteen.  Victor 
Hugo  did  to  Amy  Robsart  what  he  had  done  to  Biig-Jargal,  and  what  he  would  have 
done  to  Cromwell,  had  not  Talma's  death  prevented  its  production.  He  modified  and 
compressed  the  drama,  and  did  not  allow  it  to  be  played  until  he  had  prepared  it  for 
the  stage. 


DRAMATIS   PERSON/E 


DUDLEY,  EARL  OF  LEICESTER 

RICHARD  VARNEY 

SIR  HUGH   ROBSART 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET 

ALASCO 

LORD  SUSSEX 

LORD  SHREWSBURY 

FOSTER 

ELIZABETH,  Queen  of  England 
AMY   ROBSART 
JEANNETTE 

LORDS,  LADIES,  GUARDS,  PAGES 


C-A-MancliQa.ec 


ACT   FIRST 


A  large  Gothic  apartment.  At  the  rear,  a  glass  door.  At  the  right,  an  open  window.  On  the  same  side, 
an  arm-chair  for  two  persons,  surrounded  by  an  earl's  and  countess's  coronets;  the  feet  of  the  chair  are  hidden 
by  velvet  valances.      A  table  with  twisted  legs. 


SCENE   I 

EARL  OF  LEICESTER,  VARNEY. 


(They  enter  together,  talking.    Leicester  places  a  small 
iron  casket  on  the  table. ) 

LEICESTER. 

Thou  'rt  right,  Varney,  though  thy  advice 
tallies  not,  mayhap,  with  that  my  conscience 
offers.  To  make  known  to  the  queen  my 
secret  marriage  to  Amy  Robsart  is  impossible 
to-day.  Elizabeth  doth  confer  upon  me  the 
rare  and  signal  honor  of  a  visit  here  in  my 
castle  of  Kenilworth.  A  few  hours  hence  she 
will  be  here,  and  in  her  train  my  rival,  rather 
my  enemy,  the  Earl  of  Sussex,  'twixt  whom 
and  myself  it  is  her  purpose  to  effect  a 
reconciliation. 


VARNEY. 
In  sooth,  the  virgin-queen,  as  she  is  called, 
doth  not  with  good  grace  allow  that  they  who 
aspire  to  her  favor  should  be  more  enslaved 
than  she  herself  is  by  the  laws  of  love.  To 
confess  that  neither  your  heart  nor  your  hand 
is  free  would  be  to  give  the  Earl  of  Sussex 
such  a  great  advantage  ! 

LEICESTER  (interrupting  him,  impatiently). 

I   tell   thee,  Richard,  that   I  will  do  what 

thou  wouldst   have   me   do,   for  't  is  forced 

upon  me  by  my  embarrassing  situation.     But 

none  the  less  my  heart  is  filled  with  anxiety 

73 


74 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


and  sorrow.  What  is  the  favor  of  a  queen 
compared  with  domestic  happiness  ?  what  is 
disgrace  inflicted  by  Elizabeth  beside  my 
Amy's  love? 

VARNEY. 

To  hear  the  Earl  of  Leicester  draw  that 
parallel  should  be  enough  to  fill  my  lady's 
heart  with  gratitude. 

LEICESTER. 
Beloved  Amy ! 

VARNEY. 
To  hear  the  Earl  of  Leicester  heave  that 
love-lorn  sigh  should  be  enough  to  make  the 
heart  of  Sussex  swell  with  hope. 

LEICESTER. 
Sussex  !  Sussex  !     I  tell  thee  I  have  decided 
to  be  silent !     But  if  the  queen  should  dis- 
cover without  my  help  that  which  thou  dost 
prevent  me  from  disclosing  to  her  myself? 

VARNEY. 
Have  no  fear,  my  lord.  This  ruined  portion 
of  the  castle  escapes  all  prying  eyes  ;   't  is  far 
removed  from  the  new  castle,  and  is  supposed 


to  be  uninhabited  and  uninhabitable.  And,  in 
good  sooth,  did  it  not  shelter  your  lordship's 
mysterious  dove,  one  might  say — even  though 
you  should  leave  your  crabbed  old  retainer 
Foster  here — that  't  was  inhabited  by  none 
but  owls. 

LEICESTER. 
'T  is  well;    now    leave   me,  Varney.      Go 
and   overlook    the   last  preparations  for    the 
queen's   reception.       I    must,    myself,   hold 
speech  with  our  astrologer. 

VARNEY  (feigning  surprise). 

Ah !    has    my   lord    caused   Alasco   to   be 
summoned  hither? 

LEICESTER. 
Aye,  yesterday.  Didst  thou  not  know  it  ? 
He  's  in  the  secret  chamber  above  our  heads. 
Send  him  some  refreshment,  Varney,  while  I 
question  him  touching  a  certain  person's 
horoscope. 

VARNEY. 

Enough,  my  lord. 

(He  bows  and  exit.) 


ACT  I— SCENE  II 


75 


SCENE   11 

LEICESTER   (alone). 


(He  slowly  approaches  one  of  the  windows.) 
Not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  Ah  !  if  't  is  true 
that  our  destinies  are  subject  to  the  action  of 
the  stars  that  twinkle  above  our  heads,  the 
revelation  of  their  influence  was  never  more 
necessary  to  me  than  at  this  moment ;  my  path 
on  earth  is  uncertain  and  hidden ! 
( He  sits  down  by  the  table,  opens  the  iron  casket,  and 

takes  from  it  a  piece  of  paper  covered  with  cabalistic 

signs. ) 

I  can  not  take  my  eyes  from  the  mysterious 
signs  drawn  by  Alasco's  hands.  But  ought  I 
to  put  faith  in  their  brilliant  predictions  ? 
What  would  England  say  did  she  but  know 
that  at  this  hour  the  noble  Earl  of  Leicester, 
Elizabeth's  all-powerful   favorite,  is  seeking, 


like  a  child,  to  read  his  destiny  in  the  sym- 
bolical inventions  of  an  astrologer  ?  Ah ! 
but  is  not  my  weakness  shared  by  all  who 
have  cherished  in  their  hearts  the  loftiest 
ambition  ?  Mere  commonplace  destinies  have 
no  horoscope ;  but  Cssar  more  than  once 
consulted  the  prophetesses  of  Gaul  before  he 
passed  the  Rubicon  ! 

(He  approaches  the  wall  at  the  back  of  the  stage, 
opens  a  low,  masked  door,  and,  after  looking 
uneasily  about,  calls  in  a  hollow  voice : ) 

Alasco  !  Demetrius  Alasco  ! 

(A  little  old  man  comes  down  a  dark,  narrow  staircase, 
and  appears  upon  the  stage.  He  is  dressed  in  a  full 
gray  frock.  He  has  a  bald  head,  white  beard  and 
black  eyebrows.) 


76 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE    111 

LEICESTER,  ALASCO. 


ALASCO. 
My  lord,  I  am  at  your  service. 

LEICESTER  (pointing  to  the  parchment). 

Old  man,  know'st  thou  that  thou  hast  here 
set  down  most  audacious  dreams?  That  night 
the  heavens  were  cloudless,  and  thou  couldst 
read  them  like  an  open  book.  The  stars — am 
I  not  right  ? — have  not  confirmed  those  rash 
predictions. 

ALASCO. 

Not  so,  my  son  ;  I  have  seen  again  in  your 
star  what  it  had  already  disclosed  to  me.  Earl 
of  Leicester,  thy  ambition  is  great,  but  thy 
fortune  will  be  greater  still. 

LEICESTER. 
Thou  didst  then,  in  very  truth,  see  in  the 
darkness  of  my  destiny  .   .  . 

ALASCO. 
Must  I  repeat  it  ?     A  throne.     And  what 
throne  ?     The  first  on  earth  ! 

LEICESTER. 
Old  man,  dost  thou  weigh  well  thy  words  ? 

ALASCO. 
You  'd  have  the  truth,   my  lord.     I  know 
that  't  is  not  always  prudent  to  tell  the  truth 
to  those  who  rule  the  world. 

(At  that  moment  Leicester  meets  the  false,  piercing  eye 
of  Alasco  fixed  upon  his  face.  The  earl  hastily  puts 
his  hand  to  his  sword.) 


LEICESTER. 

Villain  !  thou  dost  deceive  me  !  By  the 
faith  of  my  ancestors  thou  'rt  making  sport  of 
me.  Dearly  shalt  thou  pay  me  for  thy  inso- 
lent raillery. 

ALASCO. 

Nay,  he  rails  not,  who  has  his  eyes  upon 
the  heavens  and  his  foot  upon  the  tomb  ! 
Hark  ye,  my  son :  To-day  the  April  moon  is 
in  the  great  Chaldean  arc.  I  have  been  fore- 
warned that  on  this  day  your  unworthy 
servitor  would  be  in  danger  of  his  life,  but 
that  he  would  come  forth  therefrom  safe  and 
well.  I  am  old,  weak  and  defenseless,  and 
you  are  young  and  strong  and  armed,  but  I 
shall  have  more  faith  than  you  in  the  twofold 
prediction  ;  your  star  lied  not,  and  you  will 
not  kill  me. 

LEICESTER. 

A  proof !  a  proof  !  Give  me  the  proof  that 
I  am  not  the  dupe  of  an  impostor  ! 

ALASCO. 
The  proof?     'T  is  this:   that  while  I  fore- 
tell for  you  this  royal  future,  I  am  none  the 
less    aware  what    obstacles  the    past  puts  in 
your  way. 

LEICESTER. 
How  now  !  what  obstacles  ?    What  meanest 
thou  ?     Who  told  thee  ? 

ALASCO. 

My  son,  remember  that  yesterday  you 
caused  me  to  be  seized  in  my  secure  retreat. 


ACT   I— SCENE  III 


77 


like  a  wild  beast ;  that  a  closed  carriage,  so 
tightly  closed  that  none  could  look  within, 
brought  me  to  this  dungeon,  isolated  from  all 
human  habitations  ;  that  no  human  voice  has 
struck  upon  my  ear  for  four  and  twenty  hours  ; 
and  that,  fasting  and  sleepless,  as  the  cabalistic 
law  prescribes,  last  night  with  my  unsmiling 
eyes  I  studied  for  you,  from  this  narrow 
turret,  the  book  that  has  no  pages.  Reflect, 
and  say  if  any  human  means  could  have 
informed  me  that  this  ruin  is  not  deserted,  as 
it  is  supposed  to  be,  but  that  it  has  an 
occupant  whom  it  conceals  from  all  the 
world. 

LEICESTER. 
My  God  !    stay  !    hold  thy  peace  !     He  is 
right.     How  can  he  have  found  out  ? 

AL.\SCO. 

(He  takes  a  parchment  from  his  bosom,  and   pretends 
to  study  it  closely.) 

The  irregularity  of  the  stellar  zones  indi- 
cates that  the  young  woman's  birth,  though 
honorable,  is  below  the  rank  of  the  noble  earl. 
Nathless  the  crossing  of  the  lines  denotes  a 
lawful  marriage,  which  is  kept  secret,  as  the 
proximity  of  the  nebulous  Chormith  proves. 
But  this  marriage  must  inevitably  be  dissolved ; 
for  the  young  lady's  pale  star  will  disappear 
in  the  beams  of  the  great  Southern  comet, 
■which  draws  into  its  vortex  the  noble  earl's 
bright  star,  and  represents  .  .  . 

LEICESTER. 
And  represents  .  .  .  ?   Finish,  knave,  finish  ! 

ALASCO. 
Your  lordship  will  have  it  so  ? 

LEICESTER. 

And  quickly,  I  command  thee  ! 


ALASCO. 
I  am  but  a  feeble  old  man,  and  what  my 
mouth  says  was  not  conceived  in  my  mind. 

LEICESTER. 
Speak  then  !  wilt  thou  speak  ? 

ALASCO. 
The  great   crowned    comet   represents   an 
■exalted,  sovereign  lady,  who  is  to  come  from 
the  south   .  .  . 

LEICESTER. 
What   says   it?     Old    man,  what  meaning 
dost    thou    conceal    'neath   these  mysterious 
words?    Tell  me,  I  command  thee,  who  this 
sovereign  lady  is  ? 

ALASCO. 
The  Earl  of  Leicester  is  not  unversed  in 
heraldry,  and  he  will  recognize  her  by  her 
crown. 

LEICESTER. 
Ye  powers  of  heaven  ! 

ALASCO. 
The  sovereign  brings  hither  in  her  heart  a 
tenderness  as  yet  but  ill-defined,  which  may 
become  more  clear  and  stronger.  And  per- 
chance,— What  is  love  beside  ambition?  A 
man  doth  not  refuse  the  hand  that  gives  a 
sceptre.  The  lord  of  this  castle  is  not  wont 
to  pause  in  the  career  of  grandeur  .   .  . 

LEICESTER     (bewildered). 
Enough,  old  man,  enough  !     You  speak  to 
me  of  the  future,  and   your  voice  causes  my 
heart  to  ache  as  if  it  were  the  voice  of  my 
remorse ! 

ALASCO. 
If  your  lordship  .  .  . 

LEICESTER. 
Enough,  I  tell  thee ! 


78 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


(After  a  pause.) 

Alasco,  if  thou  dost  set  store  by  thy  life, 
bear  always  in  mind  that,  when  one  has  the 
fortune  to  know  everything,  't  is  most  essen- 
tial also  to  know  how  to  hold  one's  peace.     I 


will  reward   thee   generously  for    thy  words, 
but  for  thy  silence  more  generously  still. 

(He  tosses  him  a  purse  of  gold.) 
( Enters  Varney,  followed  by  a  servant  with  a  basket 
ill   which   refreshments  can  be  seen.     The   servant 
places  the  basket  on  a  table,  and  exit.) 


ACT  I— SCENE  IV 


79 


SCENE    IV 


LEICESTER,  ALA6C0,  VARNEY. 


VARNEY. 
My  lord,  your  orders  have  been  carried  out. 
Kenihvorth  Castle  is  ready  to  receive  her  Ma- 
jesty the  Queen. 

LEICESTER. 
'T  is  well.     I  go  now  to  make  my  own 
preparations.     I  will  return  hither,  ere  long. 


to  fulfill  a  desire  which  the  lady  within 
hath  graciously  expressed.  Do  you,  Var- 
ney,  have  an  eye  to  Alasco's  comfort.  Show 
him  all  the  consideration  due  to  his  years 
and  his  learning. 

(Varney  bows.     Exit  Leicester.) 


8o 


AMY  ROBSART 


SCENE   V 

ALASCO,  VARNEY. 


VARNEY  (looking  at  Alasco,  with  a  laugh). 
Well,  thou  old  child  of  hell,  so  my  master 
and  thine  has  become  thy  dupe  ?    The  royal 
lion   of  England   is  caught  in   thy  toils,  eh, 
fox? 

ALASCO. 
You  might,  my  son,  express  yourself  with 
greater  dignity.     If  my  learning  .  .  . 

VARNEY. 
Thy  learning  1  Come,  throw  away  the 
mask  with  me,  who  know  thy  face !  Barest 
thou  say  to  me  that  thou  hast  in  very  truth 
read  in  the  stars  the  surprising  revelations 
that  thou  didst  but  now  make  known  to  the 
earl? 

ALASCO. 
At  least,  mysterious  means  .  .  . 

VARNEY. 
Yes,  yes,  a  strip  of  parchment   that  a  sly 
and  active  emissary  of  my  own  slipped  into 
thy  hand  last  night  on  thy  arrival. 

ALASCO. 
Aha  I    the  youth  who  whispered  to  me  in 
the  darkness  came  from  thee?     Who  was  he, 
prithee?     His  voice  was  not  unknown  to  me. 

VARNEY. 
A  page  the  devil  sent  to  take  service  with 
me.     However,  you  knew  enough  to  profit  by 
the  information  he  gave  you. 


ALASCO. 
Why  not  ?  since  it  saved  me  precious  time, 
much  more  profitably  employed  in  the  con- 
templation of  nature's  secrets,  in  the  conquest 
of  universal  knowledge.  One  step  more,  and 
I  shall  have  penetrated  to  the  inmost  recesses 
of  the  laboratory  of  creation,  and  shall  hold 
in  my  hands  the  seeds  of  gold  !  and  then, 
take  heed,  't  will  be  my  turn  to  be  thy  mas- 
ter, thou  insolent  favorite's  favorite  ! 

VARNEY. 

Hoity-toity !  Master  Alasco,  let  us  not 
lose  our  heads !  I  have  such  faith  in  your 
science  that,  should  I  forfeit  your  good-will, 
I  should  eat  nothing  but  fresh  eggs  for  three 
months. 

ALASCO. 

Presumptuous  man !  my  philters !  my  po- 
tions !  dost  think  that  I  would  waste  them  upon 
thee?  Dost  think  that  I  would  throw  away,  to 
save  thy  miserable  life,  the  sublime  quintes- 
sences of  the  rarest  plants,  the  purest  minerals, 
wherein  so  many  priceless  elements  are  concen- 
trated that  the  whole  domain  of  a  Leicester 
would  not  pay  for  one  phial?  Have  no 
fear,  Varney  !  although  't  is  certain  that  more 
venom  can  be  extracted  from  thy  body  than 
from  any  viper's,  thou  art  not  worth  a  drop 
of  one  of  my  poisons. 

VARNEY. 
That 's  the  most  comforting  word  that  thou 
hast  thus  far  said  to  me. 


ACT  /—SCENE    V 


8i 


ALASCO. 

And  as  for  penetrating,  without  thee,  thy 
master's  secrets,  had  I  but  chosen  to  exert 
myself,  the  task  would  have  been  no  more 
difficult  than  in  the  case  of  thy  own  secrets, 
Richard  Varney  ! 

VARNEY. 
My   secrets?     'T    is,    indeed,    no   difficult 
matter  to  know  them  :   I  have  none. 

ALASCO. 

Is  't  so?  And  Leicester's  clandestine 
marriage  which  thou  dost  so  earnestly  desire 
to  annul, — is  it  in  his  interest,  sayest  thou  ?  Is 
it  in  order  that  he  may  not  pause  in  his  glori- 
ous career? 

VARNEY. 

Aye,  and  a  little,  mayhap,  to  exchange  the 
livery  of  a  nobleman's  squire  for  the  cloak  of 
a  king's  equerry. 

ALASCO. 

Is  it  for  that  alone,  subtle  Varney  ?  It 
was  beneath  thy  roof  that  the  illustrious  Earl 
of  Leicester  was  first  presented  to  fair  Amy 
Robsart ;  behind  thee  he  took  shelter,  when, 
seeking  to  seduce  her  but  seduced  by  her 
instead,  he  made  fair  Amy  his  wife.  In  the 
eyes  of  old  Sir  Hugh  Robsart  the  man  who 
carried  off  his  daughter  was  not  Leicester, 
but  Dudley. 

VARNEY. 

These  secrets,  O  sagacious  Alasco,  thou 
didst  learn  from  my  own  mouth. 

ALASCO. 
True,  but  there  are  others  I  have  read  in 
thine  eyes.    Thou  hast  taken  the  comedy  seri- 
ously, my  master  ;    thou  lovest  Amy  Robsart. 

VARNEY  (with  a  forced  laugh). 
I  love  her  !     Nonsense  I 


ALASCO     (persisting). 

Thou  lovest  .\my  Robsart !  and,  if  thou  'rt 

bent  upon  separating  her  from  the  earl,  't  is 

in  the  hope  that  some  day  she  will  cleave  to 

the  squire. 

VARNEY. 

Peace !     Who   can    have    told    you    that  ? 
'T  is  not  the  countess;   she  is  far  too  proud  ! 

ALASCO. 
Thy  confusion  proves  to  me  that  I  am  not 
at  fault.     Suppose  the  earl  should  learn  how 
his  squire  doth  abuse  his  confidence? 

VARNEY. 
Suppose  the  earl  should  learn  how  his 
astrologer  doth  play  upon  his  credulity?  Go 
to !  go  to  !  be  guided  by  me,  Alasco,  and  let 
us  remain  good  friends  !  For  both  of  us  it  is 
the  safest  way. 

(Drawing  nearer  to  him.) 

Listen.     Your  laboratory  at  Pelham  blazed 

forth   one   morning   like   unto  one  of  hell's 

craters.      You   know   that   on   the   estate   of 

Cumnor  we  have  one  tenfold  more  valuable, 

where  you  will  find  furnaces  and  starry  globes 

left  by  the  former  prior,  and  where  you  can 

melt,  amalgamate,  compound,  blow,  calcine, 

vaporize   and   volatilize   at   your  sweet  will, 

till  the   green   dragon  changes  to  a   golden 

goose  .  .  . 

ALASCO. 

Good  !    and  what  commands  must  I  obey 
to  gain  possession  of  so  fine  a  workshop  ? 

VARNEY. 
Do  what  I  say,  and  hold   thy  peace  con- 
cerning what  I  do. 

ALASCO. 
So  be  it.  But,  first  of  all,  I  prithee  tell 
me,  am  I  to  be  kept  long  a  prisoner  in  tliis 
deserted  turret?  I  like  not  to  remain  thus  all 
alone  at  night,  with  the  screech-owls  and 
eai/les. 


82 


AAfV  ROBS  ART 


VARNEY. 
What  do  1  hear?  The  sorcerer  doth 
tremble  like  a  child  in  solitude  and  darkness? 
Thou  dost  not  now  make  gold,  Alasco,  and 
thou  hast  no  fear  of  robbers.  As  for  the 
demons,  they  ought  at  least  to  leave  thee  at 
peace  in  this  world. 

ALASCO. 
This  world  is  not  the  only  world ;  there  is 
the  other  !    and  last  night  I  saw  .  .   . 

VARNEY. 
Saw  what,  in  God's  name?  Thy  patron, 
Satan,  with  his  horns  twelve  cubits  long,  and 
his  tail,  that  makes  as  many  turns  upon  itself 
as  doth  the  spiral  staircase  in  the  old  bell- 
tower  of  St.  Paul's  at  London  ? 

ALASCO. 
Joke  not,  Varney,  and  speak  lower.     Yes, 
last  night,  at  midnight,  I  saw  a  spectre. 

VARNEY. 
Dost  thou  take  me  for  Leicester,  Alasco  ? 

ALASCO. 
Speak  low,  I  tell  thee  !     Varney,  I  had,  of 
late,  a  pupil,  a  disciple  .   .   . 

VARNEY. 
Aye,  a  confederate. 

ALASCO. 
Pray  hold  thy  peace  !  He  was  a  strange 
being,  capricious  and  mischievous;  as  clever 
as  a  demon  and  agile  as  a  sylph ;  more  like  a 
child  than  like  a  man,  and  much  more  like  an 
imp  than  either.  His  name  was  Flibberti- 
gibbet. 

VARNEY. 

An  impish  name,  in  truth. 

ALASCO. 
He  had  an  inquisitive  eye  and  a  keen  mind  ; 
he  mastered  certain  of  my  secrets  .   .   . 


VARNEY. 
Rash  youth  ! 

ALASCO. 
I  was  compelled  to  part  with  him.  I  left 
Pelham,  leaving  my  laboratory,  my  alembics 
and  my  furnace  at  his  disposal.  But  I  did  not 
forget  to  leave  a  keg  of  powder  hidden  in  a 
secret  compartment  of  the  furnace  ! 

VARNEY. 
Ingenious  negligence  ! 

ALASCO. 
I  learned  two  days  later  of  the  explosion 
of  the  laboratory.     My  poor  pupil  surely  met 
his  death  therein. 

VARNEY. 
At  all  events   thy   poor  pupil  carried  thy 
secrets  with  him  to  the  grave. 

ALASCO. 
Aye,    but    he    brings   them    back    again  ! 
Varney,  't  was  he,  his  phantom,  that  appeared 
to  me  last  night  beneath  the  arched  roof  of 
this  turret  ! 

VARNEY. 
Can  it  be  so  ?    What  said  he  to  thee  ? 

ALASCO. 
Fearful  things  ;  things  that  hell,  death  and 
he  alone  could  know.     He   reproached  me, 
with   a  bitter  laugh,    for  what  he  called  his 
murder.     I  was  half  senseless  with  fright. 

VARNEY. 
And   in   what   shape  did  Flibbertigibbet's 
shade  appear  to  thee  ? 

ALASCO. 
In  the  shape  of  a  young  flame-colored  devil, 
with  something  at  the  end  of  his  black  horns 
that  gave  forth  a  phosphorescent  gleam  in  the 
moonlight. 


ACT  I—SCENE   V 


83 


VARNEY  (aside). 
It  must  have  been  my  shatter-brained  little 
clown  ! 

ALASCO. 

What   say   you,    Richard,    to  this   strange 

vision  ? 

VARNEY. 

But  was  it  not  rather  dream  than  vision  ? 

ALASCO  (shaking  his  head). 
Nay,  Varney,  nay  !  the  infernal  powers  take 
a  hand  in  our  affairs.     Let  us  beware  ! 

VARNEY. 
One  reason  more,  my  friend,  why  we  should 
work  in  unison  !  Alasco,  't  is  not  within  my 
power  to  set  thee  free  at  once;  but  I  may 
indirectly  advise  Leicester  so  to  do.  Give  me 
thine  aid,  and  I  will  give  thee  mine.     The 


earl  will  soon  return  and  must  not  find  us 
together.  Faithfully  observe  our  compact, 
and  I  will  do  the  same.     Is  't  agreed  ? 


Agreed. 


ALASCO. 


(They  shake  hands.) 


VARNEY. 
•  With  this,  farewell,  my  dear  Alasco  ! 

(Aside.) 

The  devil  take  thee,  vile  poisoner  ! 

ALASCO. 
Farewell,  dear  Varney,  till  we  meet  again  ! 

(Aside.) 
The  lightning  strike  thee  down,    infernal 
villain  ! 

(Exit  Varney.) 


84 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE  VI 

ALASCO,  alone;   afterward   FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 


ALASCO. 
The  fellow  hath  no  conscience  ;  he  believes 
in  naught  but  hell  ! 

(Suddenly  a  piercing  voice  calls  him  from  without. ) 

THE  VOICE. 
Doboobius ! 

ALASCO  (starting  back). 

My  God,  who  calls  me  b)'  that  name  ? 

THE  VOICE. 
Dr.  Doboobius  ! 

ALASCO. 
O  Heaven  !   't  is  the  name  under  which  I 
was  proscribed!     And  again  't  is  Flibberti- 
gibbet's voice  ! 

THE  VOICE. 
'T  is  Flibbertigibbet  himself. 

ALASCO  (hiding  his  face  in  his  hands). 
How  now  !  in  broad  daylight !  Oh  !  mercy  ! 
mercy  ! 

THE  VOICE. 

Mercy?    On  one  condition. 

ALASCO. 
Name  it  !  speak  !  what  wouldst  thou  have  ? 

(Flibbertigibbet  leaps  through  the  open  window  and 
appears;  flame-colored  devil's  costume.) 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET    (pointing  to  the  basket  of 
provisions). 

What  would   I  have? — I  'd  have  a  bit  of 
yonder  bread  and  a  cup  of  yonder  wine. 


ALASCO  (raising  his  head  in  amazement). 
What  language  for  a  shade  ! 

(He  watches  Flibbertigibbet,  who  has  opened  the 
basket,  and  taken  therefrom  a  bottle  and  a  piece  of 
bread,  which  he  attacks  with  great  avidity. ) 

Why  then  thou  art  not  dead  ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (eating). 
In  sooth  am  I,  of  hunger  and  thirst. 

ALASCO  (touching  him). 
Why,  poor  Flibbertigibbet  is  really  alive  . 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

'T  is  not  thy  fault,  eh,  my  kind  master? 
And  I  would  have  liked  nothing  better  than 
to  take  my  turn  and  frighten  thee  to  death. 
But  't  is  well  nigh  eighteen  hours  since  the 
spectre  ate,  and  his  young  appetite  could  wait 
no  longer.    Everybody  must  live,  even  ghosts. 

ALASCO  (aside). 
Living  ! — I  am  not  sure  that  I  did  not  prefer 

him  as  a  ghost  ! 

(Aloud.) 

So  thou  didst  escape  the  explosion?  By 
what  miracle? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
'T  was  by  no  miracle  at  all,  but  by  my  wit. 
I  knew  enough  to  discover  your  mine,  dear 
master,  and  when  it  blew  up  I  took  good  care 
to  be  out  of  doors. 

ALASCO. 
I  swear  to  you,  my  child  .   .  . 


ACT  I— SCENE   VI 


85 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Oh  !     drop     your    oaths ;    I     know     you. 
What  's   more,    I  know    your    secrets ;  and 
therefore    you   fear   nie — and  I  do  not    fear 
you. 

ALASCO  (aside). 
Accursed  little  scoundrel ! 

(Aloud.) 

Dear  Flibbertigibbet,  let  us  leave  the  past 
behind !  I  do  assure  thee  that  I  rejoice 
sincerely  to  find  thee  still  alive.  But  answer 
my  questions.     How  cam'st  thou  here  ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
I  am  here  ostensibly  to  assist  your  accom- 
plice Varney's  villainous  designs  upon  the 
mysterious  lady  who  lives  in  concealment  here. 
Varney !  another  man  whose  schemes  I  am 
beginning  to  fathom. 

ALASCO. 
But  tell   me,    why  this  extraordinary   dis- 
guise ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
The  sorcerer's  trade  was  too  dangerous.  I 
became  an  actor.  I  belong  to  the  troop  that 
is  to  take  part  in  the  entertainment  given  by 
the  Earl  of  Leicester  to  the  queen.  I  play 
the  devils  and  the  imps  in  the  masquerades  of 
Shakespeare  and  Marlowe,  and  I  wear  the 
costume  of  my  part  to  distinguish  myself  from 
the  noblemen. 

ALASCO     (aside). 

Monkey ! 

(Aloud.) 
And  art  thou  content  with  thy  new   pro- 
fession ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

Hum-!  none  too  well  !  I'm  deadly  sick  of 
forever  repeating  the  same  phrases  and  mak- 
ing  the   same   wry  faces.       I    am    naturally 


inquisitive,  and  I  love  to  be  free.  I  would 
like  to  play  a  real  part  and  be  concerned  in  a 
real  intrigue.  I  scent  one  hereabout,  which 
seems  to  me  mysterious  enough,  and  most 
interesting ;  and  for  that  reason  I  did  not 
reject  your  Varney's  offers,  although  I 
promised  myself  to  take  no  further  part 
therein  than  suited  my  fancy. 

ALASCO. 
Wilt  thou  then  return  to  me? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Why  not  ?     But  with  the  same  reservations 
and  precautions,  I  warn  you. 

ALASCO. 
As  you  choose.     I  should  be  glad  to  know 
more  than  Varney  is  pleased  to  tell  me  touch- 
ing the  mysterious  lady,  as  you  name  her,  and 
touching  my  lord  Leicester. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Oh,  yes !  to  help  you  in  your  horoscopes. 
I  understand. 

ALASCO. 
The  earl  and  the  lady  will  be  here  anon. 
If  thou  couldst  .   .  . 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Hear  what  they  say,  and  repeat  it  to  you  ? 
Magnificent !     For  my  part  I  shall  be  charmed 
to  listen  to  the  dialogue  between  the  falcon 
and  the  dove. 

ALASCO  (looking  about). 

We  must  find  some  nock  to  conceal  thee  in. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

Aha!     a    lordly    settle    that    looks    as    if 
't  were  placed  there  for  the  purpose. 


86 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


ALASCO. 
Well,  hasten,  I  hear  some  one  coming. 

(He  assists  Flibbertigibbet  to  crawl    under  the   great 
arm-chair.) 

(Aside.) 

If  they  could  but  surprise  him  there  and 

hang  him  to  the  castle  eaves  !     Ah  !    what  a 

happy  riddance ! 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET   (under  the  chair). 

Some   one   comes.       Away  with    you,  Dr. 

Doboobius. 

ALASCO. 

Call  me  not  by  that  name. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

Oho  !    the  serpent  has  taken  on  a  new  skin. 
(Alasco  goes  back  into  the  turret.) 


ACT  I—SCENE   VII 


87 


SCENE  VII 

LEICESTER   (wrapped  in  a  cloak),  AMY,  FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (hiding). 


(The  countess  enters,  leaning  on  the  earl's  arm.) 

AMY. 
How  kind  you  are,  my  dear  lord,  to  have 
kept  your  promise,  to  have  yielded  to  my 
whim,  and  come  hither,  before  presenting 
yourself  to  the  queen,  to  show  yourself  to 
your  poor  hermit  in  your  princely  costume ! 
Allow  me  to  remove  your  cloak  with  my  own 
hands. 

LEICESTER  (smiling). 

So  you  are  like  all  other   women.  Amy? 

Silk,    diamonds    and    feathers    are   more   to 

them  than  the  man  whom  they  adorn. 

(He  makes  a  feeble  show  of  resistance  as  the  countess 
removes  his  cloak  and  exposes  him  to  view,  dressed 
in  court  costume  and  wearing  all  his  orders.  He  is 
dressed  all  in  white,  with  white  silk  stockings, 
white  satin  doublet,  white  leather  belt  embroidered 
with  silver,  white  velvet  mantle,  embroidered  with 
silver  and  decorated  with  the  insignia  of  the 
Garter. ) 

AMY. 
Amy  has  proved  to  you,  methinks,  dear 
earl,  that  she  cannot  more  dearly  love  the 
great  personage  whom  this  brilliant  costume 
adorns,  than  the  stranger  who  came  to  her  in 
the  woods  of  Devon,  clad  in  a  plain  brown 
cloak,  announcing  his  approach  by  a  blast 
upon  his  hunting  horn. 

LEICESTER. 
Dear  love,  thou  sayest  truly. 


AMY. 
Now,  my  lord,  sit  you  there,  as  one  before 
whom  all  others  should  bend  the  knee. 

(She   leads  the  earl  to  the  great  chair  of  state.     lie 
takes  his  seat  thereon. ) 

LEICESTER. 
And   do   thou   come   and    take   thy  jjlace 
beside  me. 

AMY    (seating  herself  upon  a  cushion  in  front  of  him). 

I  am  here. 

LEICESTER. 

Thy  place  is  by  my  side. 

AMY. 
Nay,  at  thy  feet.     Leave  rne  here,  my  dear 
lord;   't  is  better  so,  and  I  am  happy  here. 
(Gazing  at  him.) 

How  handsome,  how  magnificent  you  are 
in  this  guise,  my  lord !  What  is  this  einbroid- 
ered  strap  about  your  knee  ? 

LEICESTER  (smiling). 
That  embroidered  strap,  as  thou  dost  call 
it,  is  the  Garter,  which  the  king  himself  is 
proud  to  wear.  See,  this  is  the  star  belong- 
ing to  it,  and  this  the  George,  the  jewel  of 
the  Order.  Thou  hast  heard  the  tale  of  how 
King  Edward  and  Lady  Salisbury  .   .  . 

AMY  (smiling  and  lowering  her  eyes). 
Yes,  I  know.     I  know  that  King  Edward 
made  of  a  lady's  garter  the  first  decoration  of 
an  English  knight. 


88 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


LEICESTER. 
I  had  the  honor  to  receive  this  order  with 
the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  the  Marquis  of  North- 
ampton and  the  Duke  of  Rutland.  My  rank 
was  less  exalted  than  that  of  those  three  noble 
lords,  but  must  not  he  who  would  rise  begin 
at  the  lowest  rung  of  the  ladder  ? 

AMY. 
And   what  is   this   lovely   collar,    of   such 
superb  workmanship,   with  the  jewel  like  a 
sheep  hanging  in  the  air? 

LEICESTER. 

'T  is  the  insignia  of  a  venerable  order, 
which  formerly  pertained  to  the  house  of 
Burgundy,  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece. 
Most  valuable  prerogatives  are  attached  to 
it;  the  King  of  Spain  himself,  the  heir 
of  the  Burgundian  family,  may  not  sit  in 
judgment  upon  a  knight  of  the  Order,  with- 
out the  presence  and  assent  of  the  Grand 
Chapter. 

AMY. 

And  to  what  country  does  this  other  brill- 
iant collar  belong? 

LEICESTER. 
'T  is  the  Order  of  Saint  Andrew,  re-estab- 
lished by  James,  the  last  king  of  Scotland. 
It  was  conferred  on  me  at  the  time  't  was 
thought  the  young  dowager  of  France  and 
Scotland,  ill-fated  Mary  Stuart,  would  not 
decline  to  marry  an  English  baron.  But  is  it 
not  far  better  to  be  a  free  English  nobleman 
than  to  share  with  a  woman  that  unhappy 
mountain  kingdom  of  the  North  ? 

AMY. 

I  think  as  does  my  noble  Leicester.  For 
my  own  part,  I  would  always  have  preferred 
the  hand  of  Dudley  to  that  of  any  monarch 
in  the  world. 


Alas! 


LEICESTER  (aside). 


AMY. 


What  troubles  thee,  my  lord?  Think'st 
thou  that  a  queen's  love  would  be  more  ardent 
and  more  tender  than  thy  Amy's? 

LEICESTER  (kissing  her  on  the  brow). 
No,   oh   no !    and   nothing,   nothing  shall 
tear   thee  from   my  arms,  my  wife  !    my  best 
beloved  wife ! 

AMY. 

Aye,  thy  wife.  The  child  of  an  obscure 
country  gentleman  is  held  in  lawful  embrace 
upon  that  glorious  breast,  laden  with  the 
insignia  of  all  the  renowned  chivalric  orders  of 
Europe.  But  when  shall  I  be  thy  wife  in  the 
sight  of  all  the  world  as  I  am  in  God's  sight 
and  thine? 

LEICESTER. 

As  soon  as  it  can  possibly  be,  dear  child. 
(He  rises.) 

But  now  I  have  gratified  thy  wish,  and 
despite  the  happiness  it  affords  me  to  be  with 
thee,  I  must  say  farewell. 

AMY. 
One  moment,  my  dear  lord,  one  moment 
more !  When  I  ask  thee  to  own  me  as  thy 
wife  before  the  world,  thou  dost  not,  I  trust, 
accuse  me  in  thy  heart  of  empty  pride  and  vain- 
glory. And  yet  how  could  I  not  be  proud  to 
be  acknowledged  as  the  lawful  spouse  of  the 
most  illustrious  of  English  noblemen  ?  But 
I  think  more  than  all  else,  Dudley,  of  my 
unhappy  father.  What  is  he  saying  at  this 
moment?  What  is  he  doing?  What  misery 
for  him  the  day  he  rose  without  receiving  at 
his  waking  his  child's  accustomed  kiss  !  Poor 
father  !  Did  he  think,  could  he  have  thought 
that  it  was  Varney,  your  squire,  who  seduced 
me  and  abducted  me  ?  Ah  !  that  thought  is 
unendurable  to  me  !     He  knows  thee  not,  my 


ACT  I— SCENE  VII 


89 


Leicester,  and  if,  in  his  thoughts,  he  could 
never  look  down  to  Varney's  level  to  seek 
his  daughter's  husband,  he  could  no  more 
look  up  to  thine.  My  best-beloved,  release  me 
from  my  oath,  allow  me  at  least  to  hasten  to 
him,  to  undeceive  him,  to  restore  to  the  old 
man  his  cherished  daughter,  and  to  restore 
her  to  him  as  the  spouse  of  the  renowned 
Earl  of  Leicester. 

LEICESTER. 
Some  day,  yes,  some  day.  Amy,  this  wish 
also  shall  be  gratified.  Believe  me,  thou 
canst  not  long  more  ardently  than  I  for  that 
day.  What  happiness,  when  I  can  comfort 
thy  father's  declining  years,  and,  casting  aside 
all  the  weariness  and  anxiety  of  ambition, 
pass  all  my  days  at  thy  feet,  at  the  feet  of  the 
most  adorable  and  most  adored  of  women  ! 
But  alas !  we  must  still  wait  and  be  content 
with  hoping. 

AMY. 
But  why?  what  obstacle  prevents  this  union 
which  you  say  that  you  desire,  and  which 
divine  and  human  laws  alike  enjoin  upon  us? 
Ah !  if  you  did  desire  it,  even  a  little,  no 
one  would  dare  oppose  it ;  for  never  would  a 
greater  power  have  aided  a  more  righteous 
cause. 

LEICESTER. 
'T  is  easy  for  you  to  speak  thus.  Amy! 
you  do  not  know  the  court,  the  requirements 
of  rank,  the  duties  of  high  ofifice !  and  you 
make  this  request  upon  the  very  day  when  I 
proposed  to  urge  you  to  keep  more  carefully 
concealed  than  ever.  Know  yo\i  not  that 
to-day,  within  the  hour,  I  receive  the  queen 
here  in  this  castle? 

AMY. 

The  queen  ?     Even  so  ;  what  better  oppor- 
tunity to  announce  your  marriage  to  her? 


LEICESTER. 
What  do  you  say,  unhappy  child  ?  Know 
you  naught  of  the  capriciousncss  and  evanes- 
cence of  the  royal  favor?  That  announce- 
ment would  destroy  us  both.  Trust  to  me, 
beloved  Amy.  Hapijier  days  will  come,  and 
if  they  come  not,  I  shall  know  how  to  hasten 
them.  Meanwhile,  disturb  not  our  farewell 
.by  a  request  which  thine  own  interest  forbids 
me  to  grant. 

( He  rises  to  embrace  Amy  and  pushes  back  the  chair, 
which  rolls  suddenly  away  and  leaves  Flibbertigibbet 
in  full  view.) 

LEICESTER  (spying  Flibbertigibbet). 

What  's  this? 

(He   extricates    himself    from   the   astonished    Amy's 
arms,  and  rushes  upon  the  imp. ) 

What  doth  this  villain  here? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (boldly  raising  his  head). 

My  gracious  lord,  I  have  been,  as  you  see, 
assisting,  like  the  jealous  Odragonal,  at  the 
interview  between  handsome  Meriandre  and 
lovely  Indamira.     I  have  been  listening. 

LEICESTER. 

So  ?  in  that  case  thou  hast  listened  at  the 
expense  of  thine  ears  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
'T  is  likely. 

LEICESTER. 
What  art  thou  ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
What  you  choose.  A  dead  man  or  a  liv- 
ing. Dead,  if  such  be  your  dagger's  good 
pleasure;  if  not,  a  living  man,  and  one  who 
prefers  the  end  of  a  good  meal  to  the  begin- 
ning of  a  quarrel. 

LEICESTER. 
Insolent   clown  !      Thou   'rt    playing   with 
the  rope  of  thy  gallows. 


9° 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET, 
For  lack  of  means  to  cut  it. 

LEICESTER  (intensely  excited). 
'T  is  some  emissary  of  Lord    Sussex  and 
my  enemies.     Go ;    thy  audacity  shall  be  so 
punished  as  to  make  all  thy  fellows  tremble. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

They  are  few.  My  lord  earl,  you  can  do 
with  me  either  of  three  things  at  your  choice : 
hang  me,  as  a  thief,  to  the  highest  tree  in  the 
forest ;  nail  me  to  the  great  gate  of  the  castle 
as  a  spy ;  or,  as  a  sorcerer  send  me  to  hell  at 
the  stake. 

LEICESTER. 

Such  effrontery  is  seldom  seen  !  But  I 
must  know  who  placed  him  there.  Hark  ye, 
villain  :  thou  hast  deserved  all  of  those  punish- 
ments and  more  beside.  But  thou  mayest  escape 
them  and  obtain  mercy  by  telling  me  whose 
vile  tool  thou  art. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

To  save  my  life?  that  would  be  cowardice  ! 

LEICESTER. 

I  can  do  more  for  thee  than  give  thee  life. 
Doubtless  thou  'rt  paid  to  ply  this  trade  of 
spy :  tell  me  how  much,  and  if  thou  dost  add 
thereto  tlie  name  of  thy  employer,  I  will  give 
thee  the  sum  that  thou  art  promised  a  hun- 
dred times  over.  Reveal  this  base  intrigue 
to  me. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

To  make  my  fortune?  that  would  be  des- 
picable. 

LEICESTER. 
What !  threats  and  promises  have  no  effect 
on    thee.      Mayhap   force    will    exert    more 
influence.      Who   concealed   thee   here?  tell 
me !  if  not  .   .   . 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
I  care  as  little  whether  I  tell  you  it,  or  hold 
my  tongue,  as  for  the  seven  burners  of  the 
wonderful  lamp  ;  and,  if  you  had  assumed  a 
different  tone  with  me,  I  should,  in  all  likeli- 
hood, have  answered  you,  for  he  who  put  me 
in  this  wretched  plight  is  a  vile  schemer  whom 
I  should  have  been  overjoyed  to  punish.  But, 
O  high  and  mighty  lord,  as  my  only  way  of 
maintaining  an  advantage  over  you  is  to 
hold  my  tongue,  I  do  not  see  why  I  should 
abandon  it. 

LEICESTER. 

Ah  !  this  is  too  much  ! 

(He  draws  his  dagger. ) 
Traitor,  thou  shalt  die  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Good  !   in  that   case  the  secret   dies  with 
me. 

AMY  (dinging  to  the  earl's  arm  in  terror). 

My  lord  !  my  Dudley  !  what  would  you  do? 
End  our  sweet  lovers'  converse  with  a  murder  ! 

LEICESTER  (with  raised  dagger). 
Aye,  so  that   it  may  not  end  with  a  more 
ominous  catastrophe. 

AMY. 
Oh  !  mercy  for  the  poor  wretch,  my  lord  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (aside). 
She  is  adorable  ! 

LEICESTER. 
Nay,  Amy,  deter  me  not !   the  villain  is  a 

spy! 

AMY. 

Not  so,  my  lord !  Observe  his  absurd 
costume.  'T  is  some  clown,  or  at  the  worst 
a  madman. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

Even  so,  defend  me,  noble  lady  !  There  's 
kinship  between  you  and  me  ;  I  am  as  mad  as 
the  moon,  and  you  as  beautiful  as  the  sun. 


ACT  I— SCENE   VII 


91 


AMY  (smiling). 

You  see  that  he  is  mad  !  Fie,  fie,  my  lord  ! 
would  you  strike  down  this  poor,  defenseless 
wretch,  under  your  Amy's  eyes  ?  I  claim  from 
your  chivalry  the  lady's  privilege.  Grant  me 
this  poor  life.     Go  to  !  go  to  ! 

(She  takes  the  dagger  from  tlie  earl's  hands,  while  he 
looks  at  her  with  a  smile  and  makes  only  a  feeble 
resistance. ) 

Give  me  that  naughty  dagger,  my  lord,  and 

let   it  no  longer  occupy  a  place  close  to  a 

heart  that  is  all  mine. 

(She  throws  the  dagger  through  the  open  window.) 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (aside). 
A  naughty  dagger  !    Zounds  !  a  real  Toledo 
blade,  inlaid  with  gold. 

LEICESTER. 

Amy,  you  are  a  child  !  by  sparing  his  life 
it  may  be  that  you  imperil  yours  and  my 
own. 


AMY  (eagerly). 
Believe  it  not !  an  act  of  clemency  could 
not  bring  evil  fortune.     And  more,  how  can 
the  eagle's  fate  depend  upon  .  .  . 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

The  bat.     Allow  me  to  .-ielect  the  animal 

myself. 

AMY. 

■  Come,  good  my  lord,  pray  let  it  not  be  said 

that  you  refused  me  everything  to-day. 

(Leicester  embraces  her.    She  turns  hastily  to  the  imp.) 

Thou  hast  thy  pardon. 

LEICESTER. 

Yes,  knave,  but  not  thy  liberty.     I  must 

make  sure  of  thee  while  I  discover  who  thou 

art. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

You  see,  fair  sir  ;  a  devil ;  but  a  poor  devil 

and  a  good  devil. 

LEICESTER  (calling). 
What  ho  !    Foster  !  Varney  !  Jeannette  ! 


92 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE    Vlll 

The  Same:   VARNEY,  FOSTER    (in   velvet   doublet   and   yellow   stockings),  JEANNETTE.     They  rush 

tuinultuously  upon  the  stage. 


VARNEY. 

What  is  my  lord's  W\\\  ? 

(He  spies  Flibbertigibbet. — Aside.) 

My  little  traitor  of  an  actor  !    What  does  it 

mean  ? 

LEICESTER. 

Foster  !  you  do  your  duty  over-negligently. 

Who  gave  this  fellow  leave  to  enter  here? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Nay,  scold  not  the  clown,  my  lord,  I  came 
in  as  we  devils  do,  through  the  key-hole. 

VARNEY  (aside). 
I  breathe  again  !  he  hath  not  sold  me  ! 

LEICESTER. 
Let   this   harlequin   be    consigned  to    the 
prison  of  the  castle. 

FOSTER. 
To  the  dungeons,  my  lord ;  I  understand. 
Whence  comest  thou,  thou  red-haired  devil? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (with  a  laugh  as  he  glances  at 
the  keeper's  costume). 

From  the  marshes,- — where  I   have  learned 

the   art   of  snaring   geese  with   great   yellow 

paws. 

(Foster  shakes  his  finger  at  him  threateningly.) 

LEICESTER. 

Let  him  be  kept  in  close  confinement.    Let 

him  have  communication  with  no  one,  but  let 

him  lack  nothing,  and  let  no  harm  come  to 

him.     Begone. 

(Varney  and   Foster  attempt  to  put  their  hands  upon 
Flibbertigibbet.     He  draws  back . ) 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
One  moment,  masters. 

( He  goes  to  Amy  and  kneels  at  her  feet. ) 
You  are  so  good   that  you  could  well  dis- 
pense with  being  so  beautiful.     The  imp  owes 
you  his  life,  my  lady  ;  he  hopes  to  pay  his 
debt  to  you. 

(Varney  and  Foster  drag  him  off  the  stage.) 

AMY. 
You  see  that  he  's  more  mad  than  wicked. 

LEICESTER. 

Ah  me  !  I  have  a  vague  foreboding  of  I 

know  not  what.     The  solitude  of  this  abode 

of  thine  has  been  disturbed.     'T  is  the  black 

cloud,    the    presage   of    the    coming   storin. 

Farewell,  Amy.     I  leave  thee  with  Jeannette. 

AMY. 

Shall  I  see  you  again  to-day,  my  lord  ? 

LEICESTER. 

The  duties  the  queen's  presence  imposes  on 

me  will  not  permit  it.     But  on  the  morrow, 

when    thou  dost    hear   the   great  bell  of  the 

castle  ring  to  announce  Elizabeth's  return  to 

her   apartments,   I  will  avail  myself  of  that 

brief  respite. 

AMY. 

The  queen   is  fortunate,  indeed  !     She  has 
you  by  her  side  more  than  your  wife. 
(Leicester  sighs  profoundly,  kisses  her,  leaves  her,  and 
returns.) 

LEICESTER. 

Farewell,  farewell ! 

(Exit  Leicester. ) 


ACT  I— SCENE  IX 


93 


SCENE   IX 

AMY,  JEANNETTE. 


JEANNETTE. 
Oh  !  my  lady,  if  you  only  knew  ! 

AMY. 
Knew  what  ? 

JEANNETTE. 
In  the  other  part  of  the  castle  there  is  a 
great  uproar  and  a  crowd  of  men  and  horses ; 
there  's  music  on  all  sides;  they  're  making 
ready  for  great  festivities  and  we  sha'  n't  see 
them  ;  they  say  the  queen  is  coming,  and  we 
sha'  n't  see  her. 

AMY. 

I  know  all  that.     In  these  festivities  't  is 

not  the  queen  that  I  would  like  to  be  at  liberty 

to  see. 

JEANNETTE. 

You  know  ?     Ah  !   then  perhaps  my  lady 
also  knows  .  .  . 

AMY. 
What  more  ? 

JEANNETTE. 
Who  the  old  man  may  be,  who  seems,  like 
you,  to  care  but  little  for   the  festivities,  but 
confines  himself  to  prowling  constantly  about 
this  castle. 

AMY  (hastily). 

What  say  you  ?  what  old  man  ? 


JEANNETTE. 
A  tall  old  man  with  a  white  beard,  and  very 
venerable ;  often  he  may  be  seen  walking  upon 
the  hill  that  overlooks  this  ruin.  He  sits 
among  the  bushes  and  hides  his  face  in  his 
hands,  or  lifts  it  and  looks  toward  the  tower 
like  a  hunter  waiting  for  a  bird  to  rise. 

AMY. 
Does  no  one  know  who  the  old  man  is  ? 
whence  he  comes  ?  or  what  his  purpose? 

JEANNETTE. 
No.    Foster  fears  that  it  may  be  a  spy  of 
Lord  Sussex,  and  has  considered  whether  he 
should  not  adopt  some  expeditious  means  of 
getting  rid  of  him. 

AMY. 

Jeannette,  upon  thy  head,  prevent  him  from 
annoying  this  old  man  !  Tell  me,  where  can 
I  see  him  ? 

JEANNETTE  (looking  toward  the  open  window). 
Ah  !  look,  look,  my  lady  !  there  he  is  yon- 
der, just  passing  over  the  brow  of  the  hill ! 

AMY  (looking  out). 

God  in  heaven  !  it  is  ii>y  father  ! 


IfiTf/fit     iff       'f/>uf-.>     i/\ 


W.m.A..n  .„■ 


THAZaOfl   YMA 


V   3^332       HT3R   T3A 


ACFv^aGOND 

.lari  sJctl  I      !  9Yc[a  am  ballro  orl^ 
THE  GREAT   F^/^|.5,,Qf g,fe;fe^lkWpRTH   CASTLE 

.Jicari  UiininhBih  Jr.rl}  ni  baJa  6irlJ  lo  riorii  sno  riliv/  3£dJ  eJoafiai  ario  nariV/ 
.  .  .  !  aainiJaab  JnfiilliicJ  ^(nBm  oglo  381ijoj  srb  JouiJedo  flJiolsDnari  bluow  Jrigiififi 

(.ymA  bic'wo)  qgja  e  ioJcl  all)  SCENE      I 


ELIZABETH. 
Yes,  my  lord,  yes,  my  dear  host,  ii  must  be 
so !  This  day,  this  very  hour  you  must  be 
reconciled  to  Lord  Sussex.  Forget  noc  that 
it  is  the  pretext  given  for  our  visit  to  i^enil- 
worth.  'T  is  also  the  pretext  of  this  private 
audience  which  I  did  gladly  grant  you.  And 
so,  't  is  said ;  reconciliation. 

LEICESTER  (bowing). 
Your  Majesty  .  .  . 

ELIZABETH. 
'T  is  well.    Enough.    'T  is  all  I  ask.    Now 
let  us  talk  of  other  things.     Know  you,  my 
lord,  that  this  domain  of  yours  is  in  naught 


inferior  to  our  domain  of  Windsor  ?  And  the 
reception  we  have  met  with  at  your  hands  is 
worthy  of  a  duke,  aye,  worthy — of  a  king. 

LEICESTER  (aside). 
A  king ! 

(Aloud,  and  bowing  low.) 

All  that  your  Majesty  doth  deign  to  honor 
with  an  indulgent  glance  I  owe  your  Majesty, 
and,  when  I  lay  it  at  your  feet,  I  bui  do  honor 
to  you  with  your  own  gifts  ! 

ELIZABETH. 
What  say  you  !  to  me,  my  lortl,  d  >  you  owe 
all  that  I  admire  in  this  castle,  all  that  I  am 
almost  tempted  to  covet? 

95 


A^\\   ROBSA.  T 


ACT   FIFTH       SCENE   V 

.    VARNEY. 
Ihc  c|lled  me  slave  !     I  hate  her. 

(Half  drawing  his  il   Tger. ) 
Whet  one  reflects  that  with  one  inch  of  tliis  steel  in  that  disdainful' hearth 
na^t  would  henceforth  obstruct  the  course  u!  so  many  l)rilliant  destinies  !  .  .  . 

( 1  Ic  Ukes  a  step  toward  Amy.) 

ALASCC     ^,^t-l.llln■.     llllil  1. 

^*;i?ey  '   Varney  !  a  dayger-thrust !     E ,    ryoiic  imH  know  that  it  was  tlioii. 


X. 


w 


//Ci7m^u»% 


Morran  Se  Tours  juv. 


Y7.^l,^^47y'/^./  A^  ^^-S-rrw^  //.    //^.y//- 


GA.Manchon  ac 


ACT  SECOND 


THE  GREAT   HALL   OF   KENILWORTH  CASTLE 


SCENE    I 

ELIZABETH,  LEICESTER. 


ELIZABETH. 
Yes,  my  lord,  yes,  my  dear  host,  it  must  be 
so !  This  day,  this  very  hour  you  must  be 
reconciled  to  Lord  Sussex.  Forget  not  that 
it  is  the  pretext  given  for  our  visit  to  Kenil- 
worth.  'T  is  also  the  pretext  of  this  private 
audience  which  I  did  gladly  grant  you.  And 
so,  't  is  said ;  reconciliation. 

LEICESTER  (bowing). 
Your  Majesty  .   .  . 

ELIZABETH. 
'T  is  well.    Enough.    'T  is  all  I  ask.    Now 
let  us  talk  of  other  things.     Know  you,  my 
lord,  that  this  domain  of  yours  is  in  naught 


inferior  to  our  domain  of  Windsor?  And  the 
reception  we  have  met  with  at  your  hands  is 
worthy  of  a  duke,  aye,  worthy — of  a  king. 

LEICESTER  (aside). 
A  king ! 

(Aloud,  and  bowing  low.) 

All  that  your  Majesty  doth  deign  to  honor 
with  an  indulgent  glance  I  owe  your  Majesty, 
and,  when  I  lay  it  at  your  feet,  I  but  do  honor 
to  you  with  your  own  gifts  ! 

ELIZABETH. 

What  say  you  !  to  me,  my  lord,  do  you  owe 

all  that  I  admire  in  this  castle,  all  that  I  am 

almost  tempted  to  covet? 

95 


96 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


LEICESTER. 
The   thing   that    Leicester   is   tempted    to 
covet,  madame,  is  not  that  of  which  he  may 
claim  to  be  the  owner. 

ELIZABETH. 

What  then,  my  lord?  doth  not  all  here 
belong  to  you  ? 

LEICESTER. 
Doth  all  belong  to  me,  madame  ?  .  .  . 

ELIZABETH  (smiling). 

My  lord,  there  's  something  of  audacity 
mingled  with  your  respect.  Even  at  this 
moment  when  you  bend  your  head  so  hum- 
bly, meseems  your  thoughts  are  soaring  high. 

LEICESTER. 

Have  I  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  offend 
your  Majesty? 

ELIZABETH. 

I  said  not  that,  Leicester.  But  when  you 
have  within  your  hands  all  that  man  can 
desire, — titles,  wealth,  honors, — when  every- 
thing about  this  castle  attests  your  power,  I 
fain  would  know  to  what  this  insatiable  ambi- 
tion can  still  aspire. 

LEICESTER. 

My  ambition  !  —  How  little  doth  your 
Majesty  know  Leicester's  heart !  Take  from 
your  unworthy  servitor  his  castles,  his  earl's 
coronet,  his  peer's  robe,  strip  him  of  all  thou 
hast  bestowed  upon  him ;  leave  naught  to 
Dudley,  once  more  an  impecunious  nobleman, 
save  his  father's  sword  and  the  old  donjon  of 
his  ancestors,  and  his  heart  will  still  retain,  in 
exile  and  oblivion,  the  same  gratitude  and 
love  to  his  queen. 


ELIZABETH  (aside). 

Love ! 

(Aloud.) 

Yes,  yes,  I  see  how  deeply  moved  you  are, 
and  I  am  touched  to  see  it.  Dudley,  across 
that  brow  where  naught  but  joy  should  shine, 
methinks  I  sometimes  see  a  cloud  of  sadness 
pass.  What  's  the  matter?  Why  not  lay  bare 
your  heart  to  me  ?    Am  I  your  enemy  ? 

LEICESTER. 
Li  truth,  madame,  I  have  a  secret. — Such 
gracious  kindness  ought  perhaps  to  make  me 
bold  .  .  . 

ELIZABETH  (softly). 
You  do  not  finish,  Leicester.     Can  it  be 
that  you  dread  to  have  me  guess  your  secret  ? 

LEICESTER. 
I  dread,  madame  .   .   . 

ELIZABETH. 
Go  to ;  it  might  be  guessed,  and  still  you 
might  have  naught  to  dread. 

LEICESTER. 
Ah  !  your  Majesty  !  .   .   . 

ELIZABETH. 
The  name  whereby  you  now  address  me, 
recalls  me  to  myself.  Alas !  the  queen  doth 
now  and  then  forget  herself  and  remember 
only  that  she  is  a  woman.  Were  I,  like  other 
women,  free  to  consult  my  heart,  mayhap  I 
then  .  .  . 

LEICESTER. 
Madame  !  .  .  . 

ELIZABETH. 

But  no,  that  cannot  be  for  me.  Elizabeth 
of  England  must  be  the  wife  and  mother  of 
none  but  her  people. 


ACT  II— SCENE  I 


97 


LEICESTER. 
I  have  at  least  lost  naught  of  the  queen's 
priceless  favor  ? 

ELIZABETH. 

Nay,  Leicester,  nay  !  far  otherwise !  Me- 
thinks  we  were  talking  of  your  superb  estate. 
Why,  prithee,  do  you  not  wish  me  to  visit  the 
ruined  donjon  which  makes  so  imposing  an 
effect,  from  afar,  in  the  park  ? 


LEICESTER. 

The    ruins,    madame,    are    deserted,    and 

almost  inaccessible. 

(The  door  at  the  rear  of  the  stage  opens.     An  usher 
appears  and  stops  on  the  threshold.) 

ELIZABETH. 
How  now?  who  dares  intrude  upon  us  with- 
out an  order  ? 


98 


AA/V  ROBS  ART 


SCENE   II 

ELIZABETH,   LEICESTER,   AN   USHER. 


THE  USHER  (bowing  low). 
I  do  but  follow  your  Majesty's  instructions. 
Your  Majesty  bade  me  introduce,  before  the 
reception  of  the  two  noble  earls,  an  aged 
gentleman  for  whom  my  Lord  of  Sussex  craved 
audience  with  your  Majesty. 

ELIZABETH. 
Ah   yes!      I   did   in   truth   promise   Lord 
Sussex.     'T   is  some  old  officer  who  fought 
under  him  and  who  has  some  grievance  to  lay 
before  me. 


LEICESTER  (smiling). 
A  grievance  ! — Against  me,  doubtless. 

ELIZABETH. 

Sussex  dare  not.     But  I  must  needs  receive 

this  gentleman. 

LEICESTER. 

Madame,  I  will  withdraw. 

ELIZABETH  (with  a  smile). 

Go! 

(She  gives  him  her  hand  to  kiss.     Leicester  bows  and 
exit. — To  the  usher. ) 


Admit  the  gentleman. 


(Exit  the  usher.) 


ACT  II— SCENE  III 


99 


SCENE    III 

ELIZABETH;   afterward   SIR  HUGH  ROBSART. 


ELIZABETH  (alone). 
Why  am  I  queen  ?  The  daughter  of  Henry 
the  Eighth,  the  wife  of  Dudley  !  That  can 
not  be.  Ah !  but  he  is  so  great,  so  noble ! 
his  glance  so  tender  and  so  proud  !  But  to 
marry  him  would  be  to  abdicate  !  What  do 
I  say  ?  is  it  not  really  he  who  reigns? 

(The  door  at  the  rear  opens.  Sir  Hugh,  in  deep 
mourning,  rushes  forward  and  throws  himself  at  the 
queen's  feet.) 

SIR  HUGH. 
Justice,  madame  !  justice  ! 

ELIZABETH. 

Rise,  sir.  You  approach  your  queen  some- 
what too  boldly. 

SIR  HUGH. 

Nay,  I  will  not  leave  your  feet  until  you 
have  heard  me.  Your  Majesty  will  not  refuse 
me  the  powerful,  the  last  resource  remaining 
to  me.  You  will  not  turn  aside  from  an  old 
man,  a  former  servitor,  who  shed  his  blood 
for  you,  an  outraged  father  who  comes  before 
the  Virgin-Queen  to  claim  his  daughter, 
abducted  and  seduced. 

ELIZABETH  (more  mildly). 
Your  daughter  has  been  abducted  ?  Rise, 
rise  !  Your  daughter  has  been  abducted  ? 
Who,  I  pray  to  know,  dares  abduct  maidens 
in  this  kingdom  of  England,  which  God  and 
his  saints  protect?     Your  name? 

SIR  HUGH. 
Hugh  Robsart,  of  Templeton. 


ELIZABETH. 
Are  you  descended  from  that  Roger  Rob- 
sart who  fought  so  valiantly  for  our  grand- 
father King  Henry  the  Seventh,  on  the  field 

of  Stoke  ? 

SIR  HUGH. 

Yes,  madame,  and  I  myself — Lord  Sussex 
will  confirm  me — have  fought  faithfully  in 
your  Majesty's  cause. 

ELIZABETH. 
Speak  then  in  all  confidence ;  and  doubt 
not  that  we  are  as  impartial  a  dispenser  of 
justice  as  thou  art  loyal  subject. 

SIR  HUGH. 
I  had  but  one  daughter,  madame,  and  an 
old  man  whose  days  are  numbered  may  right- 
fully rest  all  his  joy  and  pride  in  his  only 
daughter.  But,  madame,  a  vile  seducer  made 
his  way  as  a  friend  into  my  retirement ;  he 
set  his  serpent's  tongue  at  work,  and  my 
daughter.  Amy  Robsart,  followed  him. 

ELIZABETH. 
In  very  truth  I  pity  you.  We,  who  are 
crowned  queen,  know  not  how  any  woman 
can  allow  herself  to  be  beguiled  by  man's 
seductive  arts ;  but  't  w-ould  seem  that  it  is 
possible,  since  't  is  your  story.  What  is  the 
seducer's  name,  sir  knight  ? 

SIR  HUGH. 
He  is — madame,  he  is  a  man  who  hath  a 
powerful  protector. 


lOO 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


ELIZABETH. 

Even  so,  is  his  protection  more  powerful 
than  ours  ? 

SIR  HUGH. 

Forgive   me,    madame  !     I   am    but    little 

wonted  to  the  language  of  courts,  and  know 

not  what  weight  is  there  attached  to  words. 

This    ravisher   is   a  squire   of   the    Earl    of 

Leicester. 

ELIZABETH. 

Of  Leicester  !  The  purest  man  in  England 
hath  a  seducer  in  his  household  !  The  knavish 
squire's  name  ? 

SIR   HUGH. 

The  cur  who  follows  maidens'  skirts  and 
shuns  men's  swords  is  one  Richard  Varney. 

ELIZABETH. 
Richard   Varney.      'T   is  well.     And  Amy 
Robsart,  is  it  not?    What  hath   he  done  with 
your  daughter? 

SIR  HUGH. 
Alas !    madame,  she   is  here,  even   here,   I 
have  seen    her   at   a   window   of  the  ruined 
donjon  at  the  end  of  the  park. 

ELIZABETH. 
What  !   Lord   Leicester   told   me  that   that 
ruin  was  uninhabited.     Are  you  sure  of  what 
you  say?     You  have  not  tried  to  make  your 
way  into  the  donjon  ? 


SIR  HUGH. 
The   door   was   locked.      Doubtless,    it   is 
because  the  donjon  is  supposed  to  be  deserted 
that  the   villain  Varney  hath   concealed    my 
poor  Amy  there. 

ELIZABETH. 

Old    man,    we    will    look    to    it    that    you 

have  justice  done.     By  God's  death  !  we  are 

the   mother  and  the  born  protectress   of  all 

English  maidens.     A  base-born  squire  defile 

the  heiress  of  an  honorable  baronet  !     Lord 

Leicester  will  be  beside  himself  when  he  hath 

knowledge    of    this    outrageous   deed.      We 

promise  you,  sir  knight,   our  influence  with 

him   against   this    Varney,   whose    power  you 

fear.     IVIean  while — 

(She  goes  to  a  table  and   affixes  her  seal  to  a  sheet  of 
parchment. ) 

take  this  safe-conduct,  at  sight  of  which  all 
doors  will  be  thrown  open  to  you,  and  assure 
yourself  whether  your  daughter  is  in  truth  in 
yonder  donjon.  I  now  dismiss  you,  for  the 
court  waits  to  be  admitted. 

(She  strikes  a  bell.     The  usher  appears.) 
Attend  this  gentleman,  and   admit  the  two 
lords  with  their  retinues. 

(Sir  Hugh  Robsart  bows,  and  goes  ofif  through  a  door 
at  the  side.  The  great  door  at  the  rear  of  the  stage 
is  thrown  open  to  give  admission  to  the  whole  court.) 


ACT  n— SCENE  IV 


lOI 


SCENE   IV 

ELIZABETH,  LEICESTER,  VARNEY,  SUSSEX,  SHREWSBURY,  LORDS  and  LADIES,  BISHOPS, 
OFFICERS  OF  THE  QUEEN'S  HOUSEHOLD;  KNIGHTS,  PAGES  and  GUARDS  of  the  suites 
of  the  two  earls. 


(The  two  earls  enter  at  the  same  moment  through  the 
great  door,  which  is  thrown  wide  open  ;  they  salute 
the  queen  and  tal^e  their  places,  with  their  retainers, 
each  on  one  side  of  the  stage.  The  centre  is  occupied 
by  the  queen's  suite.) 

ELIZABETH. 

My  lords,  what  means  this  ?  We  summon 
you  hither  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation 
betwixt  you,  and  lo  !  you  stand  asunder  in 
our  very  presence  !  Come  forward  both  and 
join  your  hands,  which  hatred  should  not  sever 
when  my  service  demands  that  they  be  united. 
(The  two  earls  bow  and  remain  silent  in  their  places.) 

Ratcliffe,  Earl  of  Sussex,  Dudley,  Earl  of 
Leicester,  do  you  hear  us  ?  A\'hat  means  this 
immobility  ?  What  means  this  silence  ?  Will 
neither  of  you  take  the  first  step? 

LEICESTER. 
Madame  .  .  . 

(Aside.) 
A  clownish  soldier  ! 

SUSSEX  (aside). 
A  dandified  upstart ! 

(.Moud.) 
Your  Majesty  .   .   . 

ELIZABETH. 
I  know  that  I  am  called  by  that  title,  and 
because  I  am  so   called   you  will   obey  me, 
noble  earls. 


(To  Leicester.) 
Dudley,   you  are  the   younger,  and    he  is 
your  guest ;   't  is  your  place  to  forestall  him. 

(To  Sussex.) 

My  Lord  of  Sussex,  to  give  me  pleasure  you 
would  fly  to  battle,  and  yet  you  draw  back 
before  a  reconciliation  ! 

SUSSEX  (without  moving). 
Madame,  I  should  be  overjoyed  would  Lord 
Leicester  but  deign  to  say  wherein  I  have 
insulted  him ;  for  naught  have  I  said  or  done 
that  I  am  not  ready  to  uphold,  on  foot  or  in 
the  saddle. 

LEICESTER. 

And  I,  too,  under  her  Majesty's  good 
pleasure,  have  been  ever  ready  to  justify  iny 
acts  and  words  as  fully  as  any  man  who  bears 
the  name  of  Ratcliffe. 

(Tlie  two  earls  eye  each  other  haughtily.) 
ELIZABETH. 

My  lords  of  Sussex  and  of  Leicester,  which 
of  you  two  doth  long  to  test  the  flavor  of  our 
bread  in  our  Tower  of  London  ?  Of  one  of 
you  we  are  the  guest ;  but,  by  God's  death  ! 
it  well  may  be  that  one  of  you  will  be  our 
guest  ere  long.  For  the  last  time,  obey  and 
grasp  each  other's  hand  with  cordiality. 

(In  an  imperious  tone.) 

Earl  of  Sussex,  I  beseech  you. 


I02 


AAIV  ROBS  ART 


(In  a  soft  voice.) 
Lord  Leicester,  i  command  you. 

(The  two  earls  gaze  at  each  other  in  silence,  hesitating 
still,  but  at  last  draw  near  each  other  and  shake 
hands.) 

LEICESTER  (bowing). 
My   Lord  of  Sussex,  't   is  with  unfeigned 

joy  .   .  . 

(Aside.) 

Traitor,  who  sets  spies  upon  me  beneath 
my  own  roof ! 

SUSSEX  (bowing). 

My  Lord  of  Leicester,  I  am  most  happy  .  .  . 
(Aside.) 

A  felon  who  surrounds  himself  with  poisoners 
and  cut-throats  ! 

ELIZABETH. 

'T  is  well !  Now  lay  aside  your  jealousies 
and  your  resentment !  Henceforth  let  my  two 
most  faithful  servitors  be  two  warm  friends  as 
well.  My  Lord  of  Leicester,  it  is  our  purpose 
to  signalize  this  visit  with  which  we  honor 
you,  by  such  promotion  as  you  choose  to  ask. 
Whom  among  your  officers  deem  you  most 
worthy  of  the  title  of  knight? 

SUSSEX  (in  an  undertone  to  Shrewsbury). 
You  '11  see  that  she  '11  not  think  of  mine  ! 

ELIZABETH. 
In  this  connection,  my  Lord  of  Leicester,  is 
there  not  among  your  squires,  one  Richard — 
Richard — what  is  his  name? 

VARNEY  (eagerly,  in  an  undertone,  to  Leicester). 

My  lord,  doubtless  the  queen  refers  to  me. 

LEICESTER. 
If  I  may  venture  to  assist  your  Majesty's 
memory,  is  it  not  Richard  Varney? 

ELIZABETH. 
'T  is  so.     My  lord,  what   think  you  of  this 
Varney  ? 


LEICESTER. 

Madame,  he  is  a  faithful  servant  of  his 
master,  a  devoted  subject  of  your  Majesty. 
His  merit  and  his  zeal  are  worthy  of  a  higher 
rank  than  his,  and  if  .   .  . 

ELIZABETH. 
Is  he  in  presence  ? 

VARNEY  (eagerly). 
At  her  Majesty's  feet. 

ELIZABETH. 
In  that  case,  my  lord,  I  am  happy  to  unde- 
ceive you  concerning  a  vile  knave  and  traitor 
who  casts  a  blot  upon  your  noble  household. 
This  hypocrite,  whose  worth  you  vaunt  with 
such  good  faith,  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  foul  ravisher.  Would  you  believe  that 
he  hath  dared  to  defile  and  abduct  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  worthy  gentleman,  Sir  Hugh  Robsart? 

LEICESTER  (with  an  exclamation  of  dismay). 

What  do  I  hear?     Great  God,  madame ! 

(Aside.) 

Ah  !  the  spy  sent  hither  by  Sussex  ! 

ELIZABETH. 
I  share  your  wrath,  and  will  augment  it  to 
a  higher  pitch  by  giving  you  to  know  that  the 
arrant  knave  hath  been  so  bold  as  to  conceal 
his  victim  in  this  house  where  you  to-day 
receive  your  queen. 

LEICESTER  (in  consternation). 

Just  Heaven  !  madame,  believe  .  .  . 

(Aside.) 
I  am  lost. 

SUSSEX   (in  an  undertone  to  Shrewsbury). 

What  means  this?  Leicester  is  deathly 
pale ! 

ELIZABETH. 

My  lord,  you  seem  confused  ! 


ACT  II— SCENE  IV 


[03 


LEICESTER. 
In  very  truth,  madame,  I  must  confess  .  .   . 

VARNEY. 
(He  kneels,  clasps  his  hands  and  hangs  his  head.) 
Your  Majesty  .   .   . 

ELIZABETH. 
What  hast  thou  to  say  ?     Dost  thou  avow 
thy  crime?     Didst  thou  abduct  this  maiden? 
Is  she  or  is  she  not  in  hiding  here?    Answer. 


Yes. 


VARNEY. 
LEICESTER. 


Villain  ! 

(He  is  about  to  hurl  himself  upon  Varney.) 

ELIZABETH. 

My  lord,   with    your    permission,   we   will 

inquire  into  this  affair  alone.     We  have  not 

yet  concluded  our  examination  of  your  officer. 

(Aside.) 

How  deeply  moved  he  is  ! 

(Aloud  to  Varney.) 
Did  thy  master,  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
know  of  this  intrigue?  Tell  me  the  truth, 
whosoever  be  the  head  on  which  it  falls,  and 
have  no  fear.  Thy  head  is  under  our  safe- 
guard. 

VARNEY. 

Your  Majesty  would  know  the  truth?  This 
is  the  whole  truth,  as  Heaven  sees  me;  all 
this  was  by  my  master's  fault. 

LEICESTER  (aside). 
The  traitor ! 


(Aloud.) 

Thou  perjured  knave  !  what  dost  thou  dare 
to  say  ? 

ELIZABETH  (with  eyes  inflamed  with  rage). 
Peace,  my  lord  !     Finish  thy  tale,  Varney  ! 
None  commands  here  save  myself. 

VARNEY. 
And   I   will   obey  you  against  all,  madame. 
But  I  would  fain  confide  my  master's  business 
to  no  ears  but  your  own. 

LEICESTER. 
Serpent,  to  betray  me  at  your  ease. 

ELIZABETH. 
Thy  master's  business? 

VARNEY. 
Even  so,  madame ;  craving  your  Majesty's 
pardon  for  my  boldness  I  will  entreat  you  to 
accord  me  a  moment's  secret  audience.  I 
could  offer  my  august  sovereign  an  explana- 
tion which  would  be  satisfactory  to  her  per- 
chance, but  whereby  the  honor  of  a  most 
respectable  family  might  suffer,  were  it  made 
in  public.     These  are  delicate  matters. 

ELIZABETH. 
I  grant  thy  request ;  but  if  thou  seekest  to 
deceive  me  too,  by  the  soul  of  my  royal  father 
King  Henry  the  Eighth  the  good  people  of 
London  shall  behold  thee  on  the  gallows. 
Leave  us  alone  an  instant. 


LEICESTER  (aside). 


I  am  lost. 


(All  withdraw,  save  A'amey.) 


I04 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE   V 


ELIZABETH,  VARNEY;    AN  USHER  at  the  door  at  the  rear  of  the  stage. 


(The  queen  sits  down ;  Varney  is  still  on  his  knees.) 

ELIZABETH. 

Rise,  and  speak.     What  hast  thou  to  say  in 

thy  defense? 

VARNEY. 

I  agree,  niadame,  that  niy  crime  would  be  a 
heinous  one,  had  I,  taking  undue  advantage 
of  a  young  girl's  weakness,  seduced  her, 
abducted  and  dishonored  her,  as  your  glori- 
ous Majesty  doth  do  me  the  injustice  to 
believe. 

ELIZABETH. 

What  is  thy  meaning,  Richard  Varney? 
Am  I  not  well  informed  ?  Is  some  other  than 
thyself  the  culprit  ? 

VARNEY. 
Not  so.  The  queen  is  well  informed,  but 
not  informed  of  everything.  Miss  Robsart  is 
not  dishonored ;  unless  it  be  dishonoring  to 
be  the  wife  of  one  of  my  lord  the  Earl  of 
Leicester's  squires. 

ELIZABETH. 

What  !  thou  hast  married  her?  This  Arny 
Robsart  is  tliy  lawful  wife? 

VARNEY. 
She  is  my  lawful  wife.     That  is  the  truth, 
so  please  your  Majesty. 

ELIZABETH. 
Beware    that    thou  dost  not    deceive   me, 
sirrah  !     If  thou  hast  married  her,  why  charge 


the  noble  earl?     What  dost  thou  imptite  to 

him?     Perchance  he  doth   know   naught   of 

this  ? 

VARNEY. 

Naught    doth    he    know,    in    very    truth, 

madame.     But,  I  repeat,  he  is  the  cause  of 

all.     I.  pray  your  Majesty  to  be  yourself  the 

judge. 

ELIZABETH. 

Say  on  !     I  listen. 

VARNEY. 

Long  since,  the  noble  earl,  the  honor  of 
the  Court  of  England,  renounced  all  thought 
of  marriage.  Some  secret  care,  whereof  no 
one  dares  seek  to  know  the  cause,  leads  him 
to  shun  all  women.  'T  is  said  that  my 
unhappy  master  .  .  .  Must  I,  madame,  repeat 
what  people  say  ? 

ELIZABETH. 

Speak  !    speak ! 

VARNEY. 

'T  is  said  that,  deep-hidden  in  his  heart, 
my  lord  cherishes  a  profound  passion,  of 
which  the  object  is  so  far  above  him  that  he 
may  not  even  hope. 

ELIZABETH. 
What   say   you?    methinks    tliere    are    no 
women   to  whom  the  noble  earl  might   not 
fearlessly  aspire. 

VARNEY. 

Alas !  your  Majesty  must  know  that  there 
is  one  above  him. 


ACT  II— SCENE   V 


105 


ELIZABETH. 
What   say   you  ?      What    do    your    words 
intend  ?     1  understand  you  not,  \'arney. 
VARNEY. 
In  this  connection  all  conjectures  are  over- 
bold.    Often,  when  he  believes  no  eye  is  on 
him,  my  poor  master  kisses  a  lock  of  hair. 
I  must  needs  raise  my  eyes  very  high  to  see 

the  like. 

ELIZABETH. 

Enough  !   enough  !     And  you  were  saying 
that  your  master  .  .  , 

VARNEY. 
My  lord,  so  utterly  absorbed  is  he  by  this 
passion  that  possesses  him,  will  listen  to  no 
word  of  marriage  for  himself,  nor  even  for 
any  of  his  household. 

ELIZABETH. 
Poor,  noble  earl ! 

VARNEY. 
And  that  is  why,  having  fallen  madly  in 
love  with  Amy  Robsart,  I  deemed  it  my  duty, 
madame,  to  conceal  our  marriage,  in  order 
that  I  might  not  be  congratulated  by  my  lord. 
Therefore  I  was  right  in  saying  that  every- 
thing about  this  mystery  and  my  apparent 
crime  is  chargeable  to  my  master. 


ELIZABETH. 
His  fault  is  not  so  serious  ! 

VARNEY. 
I  did  but  await  a  favorable  opi)ortunity  to 
disclose  my  secret  to  him,  and  if  your  Majesty 
will  deign  to  say  a  word  to  him  in  my  behalf; 
I  doubt  not  that  he  will  grant  me  his  forgive- 
ness, by  retaining  me  in  my  position,  and 
leaving  me  my  wife. 

ELIZABETH. 
Yes,    since    Amy   Robsart    is    your    wife, 
Varney,  I    take   upon   myself  to   calm    your 
master's  ire. 

VARNEY  (bowing). 
Madame,  my  gratitude  .   .   . 

ELIZABETH. 
And  we  will  look  to  it  that  Sir  Hugh  shall 
have  no  cause  to  blush  for  his  son-in-law. 

VARNEY  (bowing  lower  than  before). 

Your  Majesty's  kindness  overwhelms  me. 

ELIZABETH. 
No,  Varney,  I  am  well    content  with   the 
explanation  you  have  given  me.     Usher,  let 
the  doors  be  once  more  thrown  open. 


io6 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE   VI 

ELIZABETH,  VARNEY,  LEICESTER,  SUSSEX,  THE  WHOLE  COURT. 


ELIZABETH   (after  a  moment's  silence). 

Earl  of  Leicester,  give  me  your  sword. 

LEICESTER  (aside). 
First  the  sword,  and  then  the  head. 

SUSSEX  (in  an  undertone  to  Shrewsbury). 
Can  this  mean  disgrace  ? 

(Leicester   detaches   his   sword,  and   hands  it  to  the 
queen  on  bended  knee.) 

ELIZABETH. 
Richard   Varney,  come   hither   and   kneel 
down. 

(Varney  obeys.  She  draws  the  sword  from  its  sheath. 
General  surprise  among  the  company  and  emotion 
among  the  ladies.) 

LEICESTER  (aside). 
What  is  her  purpose  ? 

ELIZABETH. 
(She  looks  at  the  sword  with  satisfaction.) 
Had  I  been  born  a  man,  none  of  my  ances- 
tors have  loved  as  I  would  love  the  gleam  of 
a  good  sword.  I  love  to  gaze  on  weapons 
close  at  hand.  Had  I  been  endowed  with 
beauty,  in  mirrors  such  as  this  I  should  have 
taken  pleasure  in  looking  at  myself.  Richard 
Varney,  in  the  name  of  God  and  Saint  George 
we  dub  you  knight. 

(She  strikes  him  on  the  shoulder  with  the  flat  of  the 
sword.) 

Be   faithful,  brave   and    happy.     Rise,  Sir 
Richard  Varney. 

(Great  astonishment  in  the  assemblage.) 


LEICESTER. 
How   now !      Doth  she    reward   Varney's 
treason  before  punishing  mine  ? 

ELIZABETH. 
The  ceremony  of  the  golden  spurs  and 
other  essential  formalities  will  take  place 
to-morrow  in  the  chapel.  Varney,  this  is  the 
beginning  of  your  fortune,  but  learn  to  mod- 
erate your  aspirations;  methinks  't  is  that 
mad-cap  Shakespeare  who  speaks  of  ' '  vaulting 
ambition  that  o'erleaps  itself."     Go. 

(Varney  bows  to  the   ground.     The    queen   turns   to 
Leicester.) 

Good  lack,  my  Lord  of  Leicester,  I  pray 
you  smooth  your  troubled  brow.  The  evil 
that  was  done  hath  been  repaired. 

LEICESTER  (aside). 
What  can  he  have  said  ? 
(Aloud.) 

I  know  not  even  yet  .  .  . 

ELIZABETH. 
Yes,  my  lord,  your  motives  were  misunder- 
stood;   but  the  honor  of  your  noble  house 
hath  not  been  tarnished. 

LEICESTER. 
Madame,  I  cannot  understand  .  .  . 

ELIZABETH. 
Have    patience.      But,    first    of  all,    your 
promise  to  confer  a  favor  on  me? 


ACT  II— SCENE   VI 


107 


LEICESTER. 
To  ask  it  is  to  confer  a  favor  upon  me. 

ELIZABETH. 
Ah  well,  my  lord,  then  't  is  agreed  that  you 
will  pardon  your  squire  Varney,  who,  unbe- 
known to  you,  hath  married  Amy  Robsart. 

LEICESTER. 
He  !  Amy  Robsart ! 

(Shaking  his  fist  at  Vamey.) 
Caitiff ! 

ELIZABETH. 
Restrain  your  wrath,  my  lord,  since  he  was 
so  insane  as  to  fall  in  love  with  her,  and  so 
wicked  as  to  kidnap  her,  we  may  not  blame 
him  for  having  made  her  his  lawful  spouse. 

LEICESTER. 
Insolent  knave  !  didst  thou  dare  ? 

VARNEY  (hanging  his  head). 
My  lord  and  master,  there  was  no  other  way 
but  this  to  avert  a  great  disaster,  to  save  what 
was  lost. 

LEICESTER. 
I  cannot  contain  myself.     This  temerity, 
Varney,  thou  shalt  pay  dearly  for. 

ELIZABETH. 
My  lord,  you  promised  us  his  pardon. 

LEICESTER. 
But,  madame  !  such  an  affront ! 

ELIZABETH. 
The  affront  he  put  upon  Sir  Hugh  Robsart 
was  far  more  grievous. 

LEICESTER. 
No,  madame,  no !      I   must   tell   you   all. 
Alas !  you  do  not  know  .  .  . 


VARNEY  (hurriedly). 

Her  Majesty  knows  all,  my  lord.  She  knows 
of  your  invincible  repugnance  to  marriage, 
repugnance  so  great  that  you  cannot  endure 
the  thought  of  it  even  among  your  retainers. 
She  knows  that  your  heart  cherishes  a  mysteri- 
ous passion. 

ELIZABETH  (hastily). 
•  Be  silent,  Varney  ! 

(Approaching  Leicester. — In  an  undertone.) 
My  lord,  do  you  deny  this  secret   passion 
which  he  hath  the  audacity  to  impute  to  you? 
(Leicester  is  about  to  speak.) 

Silence  !     I  understand  you  and  I  pity  you  : 
but  be  prudent,  dear  Dudley  ! 

LEICESTER. 
Madame,  such  gracious  kindness  .  .  . 

(.\side.) 

O  torture ! 

ELIZABETH. 

My  lord,  we  will  leave  Varney  to  complete 
his  justification  in  your  sight.  Sir  Richard 
Varney,  it  is  our  pleasure  that  your  wife,  .'\my 
Robsart,  be  presented  at  our  reception  to-day. 

LEICESTER  (aside). 

Great  God ! 

VARNEY. 

Your  Majesty  shall  be  obeyed.  So  great 
condescension  honors  my  vi'ife  and  myself. 


LEICESTER  (aside). 


Insolent ! 


SUSSEX  (in  an  undertone  to  Shrewsbuiy). 
He  's  higher  in  favor  now  than  ever  ! 

ELIZABETH. 
Come,  my  Lord  of  Sussex,  come  gentlemen 
all,  and  enjoy  with  us  the  diversions  the  noble 
earl's  courtesy  hath  prepared  for  us. 


io8 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE   VII 

LEICESTER,  VARNEY. 


LEICESTER  (indignantly). 
What   hast   thou  done,   thou   knave?     To 
think  that  my  beloved  Amy  should  be  deemed 
by  all  the  court  to  be  thy  wife  ! 

VARNEY. 
I  am  indeed  guilty,  my  lord,  guilty  of 
unreasoning  devotion  !  For  whose  sake  did 
I  risk  that  bold  declaration?  Who  was  on 
the  verge  of  ruin  ?  Who  was  in  need  of 
rescue?  Was  it  I,  a  poor,  obscure  servant, 
who,  as  I  possess  nothing,  have  nothing  to 
lose  ? 

LEICESTER. 

Enough  of  your  intentions  ;  need  you  have 
gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  she  was  your  wife  ? 

VARNEY. 
Should   I  have  let  it  be  believed  that  my 
lady  was  my  mistress  ? 

LEICESTER. 
Nay,  surely  not !  but  you  must — you  should 
have  .   .    . 

VARNEY. 
What,  my  lord  ? 

LEICESTER. 
Better  the  direst  danger  than  an  insult.     It 
would  have  been   far  better  to  discover  the 
whole  truth. 

VARNEY. 
Such  was  not  the  meaning  written  in  your 
furious  glance  when  you  believed  that  't  was 


my  purpose  to  denounce  you.  Discover  every- 
thing !  Overthrow,  with  a  single  word,  the 
most  exalted  destiny  in  Europe,  fell  the 
spreading  oak  that  casts  its  shadow  over 
England,  reduce  to  the  condition  of  a  paltry 
country  gentleman  the  renowned  Earl  of 
Leicester,  who  appoints  generals,  distributes 
peerages  and  bishoprics,  convokes  and  dis- 
solves Parliaments,  the  young  and  glorious 
minister  for  whom  the  ballads  of  the  day 
predict  an  august  union !  Pardon  me,  my 
lord,  I  confess  that  I  had  not  the  courage — or 
the  cowardice — for  that. 

LEICESTER. 
Ah  1,  but  is  grandeur,  after  all,  to  be  com- 
pared with  happiness  ?  Rather  than  abandon 
my  life  to  the  struggles  and  perils  of  power, 
should  I  not  do  better,  a  hundred  times  better, 
to  live  as  thou  sayest,  a  quiet  country  gentle- 
man at  the  feet  of  my  beloved  wife  ? 

VARNEY. 
Quiet  ?  pardon  me ;  I  said  not  quiet,  my 
lord.  Beware  !  As  I  was  talking  with  the 
queen,  when  the  suspicion  dawned  upon  her 
that  the  young  girl's  seducer  might  be  one 
greater  than  myself,  I  saw  the  jealous  fury  of 
the  woman  who  loves  becloud  her  brow. 


LEICESTER. 
What  word    was    that   thou   saidst? 
think  that  she  doth  love  me,  Richard  ? 


Dost 


ACT  II— SCENE   VII 


109 


VARNEY. 
Aye,  she  doth  love  you  !  she  loves  you  to 
the  point  that  she  would  forget  everything, 
sacrifice  everything,  and  crush  whatever  lies 
in  her  patli.  And  a  less  powerful  will  than 
hers  has  been  known  to  shatter  less  fragile 
bonds  than  yours. 

LEICESTER. 

She  loves  me  !  Thinkst  thou  that  she  doth 
really  love  me  ? 

VARNEY. 

I  saw  naught  but  her  anger,  but  you  saw  her 
joy  a  moment  since.  And  now  seek  out  tiie 
daughter  of  King  Henry  the  Eighth,  who  loves 
you  and  believes  that  she  is  loved  by  you  ; 
make  known  to  her  your  vulgar  marriage  just 
at  the  moment  when  she  has  it  in  mind,  may- 
hap, to  offer  you  her  royal  hand  ;  make  known 
to  this  queen,  when  she  dreams  of  making  you 
a  king,  that  there  is  a  Countess  of  Leicester ; 
go,  my  lord,  and  tell  Elizabeth  Tudor  that 
she  has  a  rival,  go — and  I  tell  you  that  you 
risk  your  own  head,  and  not  your  head  alone, 
but  first  of  all  and  more  than  all,  another 
and  a  well-beloved  head. 

LEICESTER. 

Amy !  my  Amy  in  danger !  Enough, 
Varney.  Thou  art  right.  What  thou  didst 
was  well  done  ! 

VARNEY  (aside). 
At  last  !     I  have  him  now. 

LEICESTER. 
We  must  save  Amy,  Varney  !  she  must  be 
thought  to  be — what  thou  didst  tell  the  queen. 

VARNEY. 
Even  so  !  but  do  not  forget  that  my  lady's 
consent  is  essential  for  that. 

LEICESTER. 
What  sayest  thou  ?  why  so  ? 


VARNEY. 
Your  lordship  heard  the  queen.     It  is  her 
will  that  my  pretended  wife  be  presented  to 
her  to-day. 

LEICESTER. 
'T  is  true.     God  !— oh  !  God  ! 

VARNEY. 
Think  you  that  my  lady  can  overcome  her 
repugnance  to  bear  my  name  for  a  short  time  ? 
She  is  Sir  Hugh  Robsart's  daughter,  but  I  am 
now  Sir  Richard  Varney. 

LEICESTER. 
It  matters  not ;  she  is  Lady  Leicester  !  and 
as  proud  in  her  virtue  as  Elizabeth  of  England 
in  her  power  ! 

VARNEY. 
Then  let  us  say  no  more  about  it ;  there  's 
nothing  to  be  done. 

LEICESTER. 

But  we  are  lost,  Varney  !  she  is  lost !  Do 
not  abandon  me  !     Advise  me,  guide  me. 

VARNEY. 
Eh  !  what  can  I  do,  my  lord  ?     Is  it  I  who 
have  authority  and   influence  over  my  lady  ? 
Have  I  the  power  to  convince  or  the  right  to 
command  her  ? 

LEICESTER. 
She  loves  me  too  dearly  to  allow  herself  to 
be  persuaded,  and  I  love  her  too  dearly  to 
adopt  the  tone  of  a  master. 

VARNEY  (folding  his  arms). 

Well,  let  us  then  await  the  effect  of  the 
queen's  wrath. 

LEICESTER. 

Nay,  nay  !  I  must  save  her  at  any  price. 
Hark  ye,  Varney :  spare  me  a  painful  and 
impossible  scene  with  Amy.  Speak  to  her 
in  my  name. 


no 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


VARNEY. 
Useless.     She  would  not  believe  me. 

LEICESTER. 
Thou  canst  at  least  make  the  trial. 

VARNEY. 
Waste  time  when  the  affair  is  urgent  ! 

LEICESTER. 
Suppose  I  were  to  give  thee  a  word  for  her 
in  writing  ? 

VARNEY. 
It   must   be   imperative   and  decisive !      I 
must  have  full  powers. 

LEICESTER  (after  hesitating  a  moment   for  the  last 
time). 

Ah  well,  SO  be  it. 

(He  goes  to  the  table  and   writes  a  few  words,  then 
hands  the  note  to  Varney.) 

Will  that  suffice  ? 

VARNEY  (after  reading  it). 

Yes,  my  lord.  We  must,  however,  provide 
against  the  possibility  of  her  refusing  to  appear 
before  the  queen,  in  spite  of  everything. 

LEICESTER. 

What  should  we  do  in  that  case? 

VARNEY. 
There  would  be  but  one  resource ;  to  take 
my  lady,  with  or  against  her  will,   to  your 


estate  of  Cumnor,  and  to  inform  the  queen 
that  my  wife  is  seriously  ill. 
(Aside.) 
That  is  within  Alasco's  domain. 

LEICESTER. 
Violence  ? 

VARNEY. 
For  her  own  good. 

AN  USHER  (entering). 
Her  Majesty  desires  the  attendance  of  my 
Lord  Leicester. 

(At  a  sign  from  Leicester,  he  withdraws.) 

LEICESTER. 
Well,  Varney,  I  intrust  her  and  myself  to 
thy  fidelity.  I  go  to  wait  upon  the  queen. 
Oh  !  what  a  plight  is  mine,  betwixt  two 
women,  one  of  whom  has  all  the  power,  the 
other  all  the  rights  ! 

(Exit  Leicester.) 

VARNEY  (alone). 
A  plight  the  more  lamentable,  my  master, 
in  that  you  are  at  once  weak  and  ambitious ! 
( Reading  the  letter  again.) 
"  Amy,  believe   whatever  Richard  Varney 
says  to  you.     All  that  he  does,  he  does  at  my 
desire  and  by  my  command." 

Ah !  scornful  Mistress  Amy  Robsart,   now 
thou  'rt  mine ! 


Moppftu  -le  Tours  inv. 


■^'/^V'V'"-"   ■  -f 


G  A-M.xncbon  ac 


ACT   THIRD 


The  same  stage-setting  as  in  the  first  act. 


SCENE   I 

VARNEY,  ALASCO. 


VARNEY. 
We  are  drawing  near  our  goal,  Alasco  ;  one 
effort  more  and  we  shall  have  a  king  for 
master.  You  say  that  this  Flibbertigibbet 
may  be  of  use  to  us  ?  In  truth,  yesterday  he 
did  not  betray  me. 

ALASCO. 
If  you  need  some  one  for  your  expedition 
who  is  young,  active  and  intelligent  .  .  . 

VARNEY. 
'T   is    simply   a   matter   of    kidnapping  a 
person  who   is  in  our   way,  and  taking   her 
hence  to  Cumnor  secretly.     But  who  will  be 
our  surety  for  your  pupil  ? 


ALASCO. 
He  is  at  this  moment  under  the  axe,  as  they 
say,  and  will  be  overjoyed  to  extricate  him- 
self from  his  embarrassing  plight  at  any  price. 
He  is  so  cunning,  however,  that«  it  may  be 
that  he  is  out  of  prison  even  while  I  speak  to 

you. 

VARNEY. 

No,  no,  the  prison  is  stronger   than  he  is 

clever.      It  has  but  one  issue  and  that  issue 

gives  upon  the  dungeon  gallery  ;  so  that,  if  I 

chose  to  rid  myself  of  your  disciple,  instead 

of  closing  the  door  I  would  open  it,  having 

first  taken  the  precaution  to  draw  back  the 

bolt   of    the    trap-door,   and   I   would    very 


112 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


quickly  send  him  down  to  terrify  the  vaults  of 
the  donjon  by  a  perpendicular  visit. 

ALASCO. 
That  is  well!  but  how  gain  access  to  him? 
In  thy  presence  the  earl  forbade  Foster  to 
allow  him  to  hold  communication  with  any 
person,  and  his  cell,  thou  sayest,  has  but  one 
door. 

VARNEY. 

Aye,  but  one  visible  door.  But,  hark  ye, 
there's  another,  masked  like  this  one,  which 
communicates  by  a  secret  passageway  with 
the  same  turret  that  serves  thee  for  a  labora- 
tory. I  alone  know  all  the  turns  and  wind- 
ings of  this  castle. 

ALASCO. 
Even   as  Beelzebub  alone    knows  all   the 
turns  and  windings  of  thy  heart. 

VARNEY. 
It  may  be  so.  Here  is  the  key  of  the 
masked  door  of  which  I  spoke  to  thee.  Go 
thou  and  visit  Flibbertigibbet,  lay  before  him 
our  propositions;  if  he  accepts  them,  enroll 
the  devil's  imp  in  our  service;  if  he  refuses, 
take  advantage  of  thy  visit  to  mix  with  his 
flask  of  water  .  .  . 

ALASCO. 
Enough  !  enough  !     Is  that  all  ? 

VARNEY. 
Not  yet.  I  have  kept  the  most  important 
till  the  end.  Thou  must  prepare  forthwith  a 
soporific  draught,  a  potion  which,  when  admin- 
istered to  a  woman,  for  example,  will  send 
her  off  to  sleep  instanter,  so  deep  a  sleep  that 


she  may  be  driven  in  a  carriage  all  night  long 
without  awaking,  and  therefore  without  shriek- 
ing or  resisting. 

ALASCO. 
I  understand.     For  whom  is  this  draught 
intended  ? 

VARNEY. 
Ask  the  stars. 

ALASCO. 
Must  we  stop  at  sleep  ? 

VARNEY. 
Old   poisoner !     I   order    thee   to  brew  a 
harmless  draught,  dost  understand  ?  harmless ! 
Dost  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  ? 

ALASCO. 
'T  is  well.     And  so  it  is  not  necessary  to 
attack  the  house  of  hfe? 

VARNEY. 
Look  to  it  that  thou  dost  not,  on  thine  own 
poor  hovel !  If  thy  concoction  is  not  as 
inoffensive  as  a  glass  of  water,  I  swear  upon 
my  soul  that  I  will  make  thee  suffer  as  many 
deaths  as  thou  hast  hairs  upon  thy  head.  Old 
spectre,  dost  thou  laugh  ? 

ALASCO  (removing  his  cap). 

Assuredly.  Why  should  I  tremble  at  thy 
threat?  My  head  is  bald,  and  thou  dost 
swear  upon  thy  soul. 

VARNEY. 

I  hear  steps  in  the  corridor.     Come  now 

and  mix  thy  soporific  potion,  harmless,  above 

all   things,  thou  devil's  apothecary !     I  will 

go  with  thee  to  point  out  the  secret  passage. 

(He  pushes  him  out  through  the  masked  door,  passes 
through  after  him,  and  closes  the  door.) 


ACT  I //—SCENE  // 


"3 


SCENE  II 

AMY,  with  a  jewel-case  in  her  hand,  JEANNETTE,   carrying  a  pelisse  which   she   throws  over  the  back 

of  a  chau-:  afterward,  FOSTER. 


AMY. 

Come,  Jeannette,  this  window  opens  toward 

the   new   castle,   and    methinks   tliat    I   shall 

sooner  hear  from  here  the  great   bell  ring, 

announcing  the  earl's  coming.     Let  us  finish 

my  toilette.     My  necklace,  my  bracelets. 

(Jeannette  takes  the  bracelets  and  necklace  from  the 
casket,  and  fastens  them  about  her  mistress's  arms 
and  neck.) 

JEANNETTE. 

These  pearls  are  very  white;    but  this  arm 

is  whiter  still  than  they.     Nathless,  they  are 

magnificent  !   I  am  sure  that  each  of  them  is 

worth  more  than  .  .  . 

AMY. 
Fie !  Jeannette  !  all  the  galleons  of  Portugal 
would  not  pay  for  them  ;  he  gave  them  to  me  ! 

JEANNETTE. 
My  lady  is  very  lovely  thus  ! 

AMY. 
May  he  think  as  thou  dost,  child  !   Alas  !  if  I 
once  had  some  little  beauty,  it  has  undergone 


harsh  tests.     My  poor  eyes  have  wept  many  a 

tear   since    I    left    my   father.       My    father ! 

When  I  think  that  he  is  here,  that  he  is  near 

me  !    Ah  !   then  I  am  afraid,  and  long  to  see 

him. 

(Enters  Foster.) 

Why  is  Foster  here  ? 

FOSTER. 
I  come  to  announce  a  visitor  for  my  lady. 

AMY. 
A  visitor  for  me,  good  Foster  !     You  forget 
your  orders ;  that  I  am  not  permitted  to  leave 
the  castle  and  no  person  is  permitted  to  enter. 

FOSTER. 
True,  my  lady,  but  the  visitor  presents  this 

passport. 

(He  hands  Amy  a  parchment.) 

AMY  (casting  her  eyes  upon  it). 

A  passport  from  the  queen  !  Foster,  admit 
him.  There  is  no  door  in  England  that  must 
not  open  before  that  bit  of  parchment. 

(Foster  opens  the  door.    Enters  Sir  Hugh  Robsart.) 


114 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE   III 

The  Same:  SIR   HUGH   ROBSART. 


(Sir   Hugh  pauses  on  the  threshold.     Amy  utters  a 
shriek.) 

AMY. 
O  God  !  my  father  ! 
(At  a  sign  from  her,  Foster  and  Jeannette  go  out.) 

SIR  HUGH. 
Aye,  God  and   your  father.     Your  father, 
who  stands  here  before  you,  and  God  who  led 
him  hither. 

(Amy  rises  and  runs  to  him;  he  draws  bacli.) 

AMY  (stopping). 
Father ! 

SIR  HUGH. 
Madame.     I  Ivnow  not  if  that  is  the  title 
by  which  you  should  be  called. 

AMY. 
Ah !    what   stern    words !      Call   me   your 
daughter.     You  are  still  my  father. 

SIR  HUGH. 
Your  judge.  Amy. 

AMY. 
Oh  !  do  not  freeze  me  with  that  look  !     If 
you  but  knew  .  .  . 

SIR  HUGH. 
Knew  what  ?   go  on  !    I  will  not  condemn 
you  without  hearing  you. 

AMY. 
And  I  have  taken  an  oath ;  I  cannot  speak. 


SIR  HUGH. 

Alas !  do  I  not  already  know  a  portion  of 

the  truth  ?     Did  you  not  leave  your  father  to 

follow  your  seducer.  Lord  Leicester's  squire, 

to  this  place  ? 

AMY. 

Father,  you  are  wrong !  appearances  .  .  . 

SIR  HUGH. 
Appearances !     Look   upon   my  mourning 
garb,  and   look   upon   your   festal   garb,  are 
these  appearances  ?  Tell  me,  as  whose  mistress 
are  you  here? 

AMY  (raising  her  head). 
Father  !  I  am  married. 

SIR  HUGH. 
Married  !   to  whom  ? 

AMY. 

To  whom  !    Ah  !   that  name  may  not  yet 

issue   from  my  mouth.     I  have  promised — I 

have  sworn  .   .   . 

SIR   HUGH. 

I  doubt  the  existence  of  a  husband  whose 

wife  cannot  pronounce  his  name  before  her 

father. 

AMY. 

In  the  old  days  you  would  have  believed 

my  first  word  .  .   . 

SIR  HUGH. 
Aye,  in  the  old  days. 

(The  great  bell  rings.) 


ACT  III— SCENE  III 


"5 


AMY. 
Ah  !  the  great  bell !  at  last !    He  soon  will 


come. 

SIR  HUGH. 

Who  soon  will  come  ? 

AMY. 
The    man   who    is    my  husband,    father. 
Listen.    I  may  not  name  him  to  you,  but  you 
may  see  him.     Know  you  the  face  of  any  of 
the  noblemen  of  Elizabeth's  court  ? 

SIR  HUGH. 
I  have  frequented  courts  less  than  camps.    I 
know,  however,  several  of  those  gentlemen,  ' 
the  Earl  of  Sussex  and  the  Duke  of  Rutland, 
Lord  Shrewsbury  .  .  . 

AMY. 
Are  those  all  ? 

SIR  HUGH. 
I  saw  also  this  morning  the  young  Mar- 
quis of  Northampton  —  and  I  was  near  for- 
getting the  lord  of  this  castle  of  Kenilworth, 


the  queen's  favorite  minister,  your  seducer's 
master.  Lord  Leicester. 

AMY. 

(She  leads  Sir  Hugh  to  the  glass  door  opening  on  the 
gallery  at  the  back  of  the  st.ige. ) 

Come,  father,  withdraw  to  the  gallery ;  he 
whom  you  will  soon  see  enter  this  room  is 
your  Amy's  noble  and  honored  husband. 

SIR  HUGH   (in  a  milder  tone). 
One  must  yield  to  your  whims,  my  child. 

AMY. 

You  will  not  regret  it,  father.  One  last 
word.  I  am  about  to  have  an  interview  with 
my  husband,  wherein  secrets  may  be  mentioned 
that  it  would  be  a  crime  for  me  to  betray. 
Promise  me  therefore  so  to  place  yourself  that 
you  can  see  everything,  but  hear  nothing. 
Will  you  promise  ? 

SIR   HUGH. 
You  have  my  knightly  word. 

(He  enters  the  gallery.) 


ii6 


AMY  ROBSART 


SCENE    IV 


AMY  ;  afterward  VARNEY. 


AMY  (alone). 

It  may  be  that  I  do  wrong  thus  to  evade  my 
husband's  strict  injunctions.  I  will  myself 
entreat  his  forgiveness.  He  will  understand 
that  I  could  not  let  my  father  suffer  longer. 
Ah  !  't  is  he. 

(Running  to  the  door.) 

My  Dudley  !   .   .   . 

FOSTER   (announcing). 
Sir  Richard  Varney. 

(lie  withdraws.     Enters  Varney.) 

AMY  (in  surprise). 
You,    Master   Varney!      What   means   the 
title  by  which  you  were  announced  ? 

VARNEY. 
'T  is  the  title  conferred  upon  me  by  her 
Majesty  this  very  day. 

AMY. 
Aha  !    My  compliments.     But  what  brings 

you  here? 

VARNEY. 

My  master's  express  command,  my  lady. 

AMY. 
'T    was     your    master    himself     whom    I 
e.\pected. 

VARNEY   (presenting  the  note). 
He  bade  me  hand  you  this. 

AMY    (sorrowfully). 
He  will  not  rome  ! 


VARNEY. 
Important  duties — his  enforced  attendance 
on  the  queen. 

AMY  (after  reading  the  letter). 
I  see,  sir,  that  my  lord  has  intrusted  you 
with  some  message  to  me.     Speak,  I  am  list- 
ening.    Well,  what  keeps  you  silent? 

VARNEY  (feigning  confusion). 
Because — I  do  not  know — what  I  have  to 
say  may  wound  my  lady. 
AMY. 
Nothing    that   comes    from    my   lord   can 
wound  me.     Speak,  Master  Varney. 

VARNEY  (aside). 
She  will  not  deign  to  call  me  Sir  Richard 

once. 

(Aloud.) 

I  am   instructed,  raadame,   to  prepare  you 
for  a  sad  change  of  fortune. 

AMY. 
What  mean  you  ? 

VARNEY. 
My  lady  must  know  with  what  irresistible 
power  the  will  of  the  august  queen  who  holds 
England  beneath  her  sceptre  is  executed. 

AMY. 
Doubtless,    and    what    Englishman    is   not 
proud  to   obey  our   glorious   Elizabeth,  who 
hath  made  a  vow,  in  face  of  all  her  people,  to 
live  and  die  a  virgin  queen? 


ACT  III— SCENE  IV 


117 


VARNEY. 
If  that  twofold  title  is  necessary  to  com- 
mand your  respect,  my  lady,  your  admiration 
for  the  queen  will  soon  have  occasion  to  be 
diminished  by  half.  There  is  talk  of  her 
Majesty's  marriage  as  likely  to  take  place  ere 

long. 

AMY. 

In  truth,  there  have  been  princes  of  Spain 
and  France  in  the  lists,  methinks.  Hath  not 
King  Philip  been  suggested  ?  the  Duke  of 
Anjou  ?  or  is  it  the  Duke  of  Alen^on? 

VARNEY. 
Your  ladyship's  information  is  not  of  the 
most  accurate.  The  queen  who  might  choose 
at  will  among  the  most  splendid  royal  crowns 
of  Europe,  has  deigned  to  cast  her  eyes  upon 
one  of  her  own  subjects. 

AMY. 
How   say   you?     The   Duke   of    Lincoln, 

perchance  ? 

VARNEY. 

He  is  a  Catholic. 

AMY. 
Can  it  be  the  Duke  of  Limerick  ? 

VARNEY. 
An  Irishman  ! 

AMY. 

I  see  no  other,  in  that  case,  save  the  Duke 
of  Rutland. 

VARNEY. 

He  is  married. — True,  that  would  be  no 
obstacle. 

AMY. 

How  dare  you,  sirrah? 

VARNEY. 
'T  is   a  sad    truth    in    politics,    my   lady. 
Crowned  heads  are  not  subject  to  the  com- 
mon   law,     and    marriages    that     embarrass 
thrones  are  broken. 


AMY. 
How  so  ?  the  throne  is  but  the  throne,  and 
marriage  is  the  altar. 

VARNEY. 
Ah  !  but  the  altar  .   .   . 

AMY. 
Besides,  what  matters  the  queen's  marriage 

to  me  ? 

VARNEY. 

More  than  you  think,  my  lady.  However, 
Lord  Rutland  is  not  the  person  concerned. 
Among  all  our  English  nobles,  not  even  with 
a  ducal  crown  does  the  queen  contemplate 
uniting  her  own,  but  with  a  plain  earl's 
coronet. 

AMY. 

My  God  !  what  lies  hidden  behind  these 
ominous  words?  You  come  to  tell  me  of  a 
change  of  fortune.  The  queen  's  at  Kenil- 
worth.  My  husband  keeps  high  festival  for 
her  ;  he  is  iier  favorite — can  it  be  ? 

VARNEY. 
It  can  be,  madame  .   .   . 

AMY. 
Just  Heaven  !    Dudley,  noble-hearted  Dud- 
ley, deceive  me  and  desert  me  !  he,  a  noble- 
man !  a  peer  of  England  !     'T  is  impossible  ! 
You  lie  ! 

VARNEY. 

I  have  said  nothing,  madame  .  .  . 

AMY. 
No,    but    you    have    implied    everything. 
Whom  are  you  now  betraying  ? 

VARNEY. 
I  said  that  my  words  would  wound  my  lady. 
Ah  !  this  errand  is  too  painful  for  me,  and  I 
retire. 

AMY  (detaining  him). 
No,  Stay  !     I  fain  would  know  .  .  . 


iiS 


AA/y  ROBS  ART 


VARNEY. 
I  have  already  said  too  much ;   my  master 
did  not  give  me  warrant  to  disclose  the  whole 
— far  otherwise  ! 

AMY. 

What  was  it  that  he  wished  to  hide  from  me? 
Speak,  I  bid  you,  speak  ! 

VARNEY. 
Well — the  queen — loves  the  earl. 

AMY  (overwhelmed). 

She  loves  him  !     And  he  ? 

VARNEY. 
He,  madame?  What  would  you  have? 
England  desires  the  marriage,  France  upholds 
it,  Spain  offers  no  objection.  The  people 
sing  of  it  in  their  ballads,  the  astrologers  read 
it  in  the  heavens,  the  courtiers  in  the  queen's 
eyes,  and  the  queen  .  .   . 

AMY. 
And  the  queen  ?  finish — in  Leicester's  eyes. 

VARNEY. 
-    I  have  not  spoken  of  my  lord. 

AMY. 
But  I  do  speak  of  him  !     What  thinks  the 
earl,  what  doth  he  ? 

VARNEY. 
What  thinks  he?  That  God  only  knows. 
What  doth  he  ?  As  yet  he  hardly  knows  him- 
self. And  yet  a  queen's  love,  a  queen  who  can 
make  a  king  !  the  necessity  of  mounting  ever 
when  one  has  placed  his  foot  on  the  first  rung 
of  ambition's  ladder  !  to  lose  all  or  to  win  all ! 
the  throne  or  the  abyss  !  And  then  can  one 
refuse  to  share  a  bed  surmounted  by  a  royal 

canopy  ? 

AMY. 

I  understand  ! 

(She  falls,  utterly  crushed,  upon  a  chair.) 


Embarrassing  marriages,  you  say,  are 
broken  ?  Ah  !  Leicester,  why  this  sacrilege  ? 
Wherefore  offend  thy  God  by  a  divorce, 
and  men  by  perjury?  Thinkst  thou  that  I 
could  survive  the  loss  of  thy  love  ?  Go  to  ! 
leave  death  to  do  thy  work  !  thy  ambition 
will  not  long  await  thy  freedom  ! 

VARNEY  (aside). 
The  affair  's  well  under  way  ! 

AMY   (rising  as  if  impelled  by  a  sudden  thought). 

Oh  !  but  I  think  only  of  myself,  what  of 
my  father  ?  I  think  only  of  my  love  !  What  of 
my  honor  ?  I  thought  to  restore  to  my  father 
his  daughter,  proud  and  happy,  beloved  and 
respected  by  her  husband.  I  shall  restore  her 
to  him,  so  it  seems,  abandoned  like  a  mistress, 
dismissed  like  a  maid-servant,  having  not  been 
acknowledged  as  a  lawful  wife  for  a  single  day, 
a  single  hour  ! 

( Hiding  her  head  in  her  hands.) 

O  shame  ! 

VARNEY  ( with  feigned  timidity). 

If  I  might  venture  a  word,  I  would  suggest 
to  my  lady  that  she  may  cease  to  be  Countess 
of  Leicester,  and  still  be  a  lawful  wife. 

AMY  (gazing  at  him  in  astonishment). 
How  so  ?     I  understand  you  not,  sir. 

VARNEY. 
At  the  moment  when  the  Earl  of  Leicester, 
drawn  irresistibly  into  the  path  of  ambition, 
abandons  for  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  the 
throne,  a  treasure  far  above  all  earthly  thrones, 
— if  at  that  moment,  madame,  a  man  should 
come  to  you,  a  man  less  brilliant,  but  more 
faithful,  who,  instead  of  an  illustrious  title 
with  a  clandestine  marriage,  should  propose 
to  you,  with  an  honorable  name,  a  union  to 
be  proclaimed  aloud  and  proudly ;  if  that 
man  .   .  . 


ACT  1 1  I—SCENE  IV 


119 


AMY  (interrupting  him  and  struggling  to  contain 
herself). 

Pardon  me  !  methinks  't  is  of  yourself  you 
speak,  Master  Varney  ? 

VARNEY. 
Even  so,  't  is  of  myself,  madame  ;  of  myself 
who,  instead  of  the  selfish  and  inconstant 
heart  which  now  doth  turn  from  you,  dare  lay 
at  your  feet  a  deep,  devoted  love ;  of  myself, 
who  would  prefer  one  of  your  glances  to  all 
the  smiles  of  all  the  queens  on  earth. 

AMY. 
You   propose   to   me   to   become    Mistress 
Varney  ? 

VARNEY. 
No,  my  Lady  Varney  !    such   is   the   title 
which  Sir  Richard's  wife  will  bear,  no  longer 
an  earl's  squire,  but  a  free  English  knight. 

AMY. 
Even  so,  my  change  of  name  and  of  con- 
dition seems  not  to  me  to  be  so  simple  and  so 
easy  of  accomplishment. 

VARNEY. 
It  happens,  on  the  contrary,  that  in  the 
eyes  of  many,  in  the  eyes  of  your  father 
himself,  I  a:ii  even  now  supposed  to  be  the 
happy  man  to  whom  your  heart  is  given. 
Pending  the  final  celebration  of  our  marriage, 
suffer  the  appearance  to  continue  to  anticipate 
the  reality.  Permit  me  to-day,  at  this  very 
hour,  to  present  you  to  her  Majesty  as  my 
lawful  wife.     Consent  that,  by  that  name  .  .  . 

AMY  (bursting  out). 

Enough  !   ah  !   at  length  thou  hast  thrown 

off  the  mask,  Richard  Varney  !     So  this  is 

where  thou   wouldst   lead   me  by  thy  wiles ! 

Thou   makest  Leicester   to  appear    faithless. 


that  thou  mayest  make  me  faithless  too ! 
Thank  God  I  saw  the  snare  in  time  !  The 
desertion  that  you  threaten  is  a  lie  !  this  talk 
of  marriage  with  the  queen  foul  slander !  Oh  ! 
what  bliss  !  O  my  noble  Dudley,  pardon  me 
for  having  for  an  instant  lent  an  ear  to  this 
vile  knave's  impostures  ! 

VARNEY. 
You   do  not   then    put   faith    in    the   note 
written  and  signed  by  my  lord's  hand? 

AMY. 
I  believe  that  thy  treachery  is  twofold  and 
that  thou  dost  deceive  us  both. 

VARNEY. 
"  All  that  he  does,  he  does  at  my  desire 
and  by  my  command,"   says  the  earl.       His 
desire  is  that,  for  his  welfare  and  your  own,  I 
present  you  to  the  queen  as  my  wife. 

AMY. 
Silence,  impostor  ! 

VARNEY. 
Beware  !  his  command  is  that  if  you  obey 
not,  I  shall  have  recourse  to  a  more  violent 
and  awful  means  .  .  . 

AMY. 
Hold  your  peace,  slave  ! 

VARNEY. 
Ah  !    't  is  too  much  !    you  do  not  fear  to 
change  my  love  to  hatred  ! 

( Advancing  upon  her. ) 
You    forget    that   we   're   alone,    and   that 
you  're  in  my  power. 

AMY  (in  terror). 
Help,  help,  father ! 


I20 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


VARNEY  (laughing). 
Your  father  ?  ha !  ha  !  think  you  that  your 
voice  will  reach   from   Kenilworth  to  Tem- 
pleton  ? 


AMY. 


Father!  father! 


SIR  HUGH  (appearing  at  the  door). 
I  am  here. 

VARNEY  (dumfounded). 
Sir  Hugh  Robsart ! 


ACT   / J  I—SCENE   V 


121 


SCENE   V 

The  Same  :  SIR  HUGH  ROBSART. 


SIR  HUGH. 
I  come  at  your  call,  my  daughter.     But,  in 
truth,  there  was  little  need  of  so  much  caution 
and  mystery  to  show  me  your  husband  ! 

AMY. 
You  are  strangely  misinformed,  father.   This 
man  is  not  my  husband. 

SIR  HUGH. 
Not    your    husband !      Body   and   blood  ! 
Doth  he  refuse? 

VARNEY  (eagerly). 
Refuse  !     Sir,  it  would  be  my  greatest  joy 
and  honor  to  call  your  daughter  my  wife.    The 
obstacle  and  the  refusal  come  not  from  me. 

SIR  HUGH. 
What!    come  they  from  you,  Amy?     You 
ought  .   .   . 

AMY. 
Father,  a  single  word  .  .  . 

SIR  HUGH. 
Do  not  interrupt  your  father  !  Assuredly  I 
should  have  preferred,  for  the  old  Robsart 
race,  alliance  with  a  family  of  more  ancient 
lineage.  But  Sir  Richard  Varney  hath  been 
but  now  dubbed  knight.  Moreover  he  is  like 
to  rise  higher  still,  through  the  favor  of  his 
master,   the   all-powerful    Earl   of    Leicester, 


who,  mayhap  to-morrow,  will  be  the  spouse  of 

Elizabeth  and  King  of  England. 

AMY. 
My  God!   what  say  you?   Leicester?   are 
you  sure  ? 

SIR  HUGH. 
Knew  you  it  not?     1  did  but  repeat  what 
universal  rumor  says. 

AMY  (staggering). 

Then  't  was  true  !    Dudley  !    O  my  God  ! 

( She  falls  upon  a  chair. ) 
SIR  HUGH   (running  to  her). 

My  child  !  she  has  lost  consciousness ! 

VARNEY  (calling). 
Foster !    Jeannette ! 

(Enters  Jeannette  hurriedly.) 
See,  your  mistress  is  ill. 

JEANNETTE  (runnmg  to  Amy's  side). 
My  lady  ! 

(She  puts  a  flask  of  salts  to  her  nose.) 

VARNEY  (to  Sir  Hugh). 

Leave  her  to  grow  calm.  Sir  Hugh.  Her 
mind  is  ill  at  ease.  Your  presence  agitates 
and  excites  her. 

SIR  HUGH. 

But,  to  leave  her  thus  ! 


122 


AMY  ROBSART 


VARNEY. 
You  shall  return,  my  respected  father,  when 
she  is  in  better  case  to  talk  with  you. 

SIR  HUGH  (with  a  loving  glance  at  Amy). 
My  poor  child  ! 


VARNEY. 
I  go  with  you. 

(Aside.) 

I  must  find  Alasco. 

(Exeunt  .Sir  Hugh  and  Varney.) 


ACT  III— SCENE   VI 


123 


SCENE   VI 

AMY,     JEANNETTE. 


JEANNETTE. 

My  lady  !  my  dear  mistress !  Ah  !  she  opens 
her  eyes. 

AMY  (looking  about  the  room). 
Father  !    Where  is  he  ? 

JEANNETTE. 
He  will  return,  my  lady.     Are  you  better? 

AMY. 

Yes,  my  child,  yes,  I  am  quite  well.  But 
for  the  moment,  leave  me,  Jeannette.  I  must 
be  alone. 

(Removing  her  necklace  and  bracelets.) 

But  Stay,  take  away  these  jewels ;  they  are 
too  heavy  for  me. 

JEANNETTE   (after  replacing  the  jewels  in  the 
casket). 

My  lady  need  but  call  for  me.     I  shall  be 

near  at  hand. 

(E.xit  Jeannette.) 

AMY. 

(She  remains  for  some  time  without  speaking  or  mov- 
ing, turning  her  eyes  restlessly  from  side  to  side.) 

Is  it  true  indeed  that  I  am  not  dreaming  ? 
Then  what  Varney  said  to  me  is  possible ! 
then  't  is  true  !  Dudley's  crime  was  confirmed 
by  my  own  father's  voice  !  Alas  !  henceforth 
I  am  of  so  little  importance  in  the  world,  my 


proper  place  therein  so  little  dreamed  of,  that 
people  will  speak  before  me  of  what  tears  my 
heart,  as  if  it  were  an  indifferent  or  even 
pleasant  subject !  And  so,  to-morrow,  yes, 
perhaps  to-morrow,  unless  death  doth  visit 
Kenihvorth  meanwhile,  there  will  no  longer 
be  a  Lord  or  Lady  Leicester !  He  will  be 
King  of  England,  and  I !   .   .  . 

(Jeannette  enters  with  a  silver  goblet  on  a  salver.) 

JEANNETTE. 
Madame — my  lady  ! 

AMY  (turning  suddenly  around). 

What  do  you  want  ?  leave  me  ! 

(She  recognizes  Jeannette  and  continues  gently.) 

Ah  !  't  is  thou,  Jeannette  !  forgive  me  .  .  . 

JEANNETTE. 

How  kind  you  are,  madame, — too  kind  to 
be  so  unhappy ! 

AMY. 

Ah  !  yes,  most  unhappy,  dear  child  !  But 
what  hast  thou  there? 

JEANNETTE. 

A  soothing  draught  that  Foster  handed  me 
for  you,  to  give  you  a  little  rest  after  all  your 
suffering. 


124 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


AMY. 

Rest,  Jeannette  !   there  is  no  rest  for  me 

save  in  the  tomb.     But  place  it  on  the  table, 

and  go. 

JEANNETTE. 

My  lady  will  drink  it  ?  , 


AMY. 
Yes,  I  will  drink  it.     Go,  go,  my  child. 

JEANNETTE  (aside). 
How  pale  she  is  for  a  countess  ! 

(She  places  the  salver  on  the  table  near  Amy,  and  exit.) 


ACT  III— SCENE   VII 


125 


SCENE   VII 


AMY;  afterward  FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 


AMY  (alone). 
A  simple  mind  to  think  that  wounds  at  the 
heart  can  be  healed  with  bodily  remedies, 
that  despair  is  naught  but  a  disease,  and  that 
sleep  can  be  made  to  visit  eyes  that  cannot 
even  weep  !  To  what  end  should  I  drink  this 
potion  ?  And  yet,  shall  I  disregard  the 
attentions  of  these  kind  servants  who  prepared 
it  for  me,  and  said  to  one  another:  "This 
will  do  our  poor  mistress  good!"  There  are 
now  but  these  two  hearts  in  all  the  world  that 
care  for  me,  none  but  this  seneschal  and 
serving-maid  who  have  compassion  on  the 
Countess  of  Leicester.  As  they  choose  to 
take  this  trouble  for  me,  I  ought  at  least  to 
recognize  it.     I  will  drink. 

(She  takes  the  goblet  and  puts  it  to  her  lips.) 

A  VOICE  (asifinsidethe  wall). 
Drink  not ! 

AMY  (checking  herself). 

Who  speaks  ? 

(Alasco's  door  opens,  and  gives  passage  to  Flibberti- 
gibbet, who,  at  one  bound,  stands  in  front  of  the 
countess. ) 

I,  noble  lady.     Drink  not ! 

AMY  (astounded). 
You  !  who  are  you  ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Do  you  not  recognize  the  poor  devil's  imp 
whose  life  you  saved  ? 


AMY. 
Ah  !  't  is  you  !  But  were  you  not  in  prison? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Yes,  in  the  Mervyn  tower,  the  tower  of  the 
dungeons,  behind  the  bolts  of  a  ghastly  cell, 
reached  by  a  most  disquieting  corridor,  the 
floor  of  which  sounds  ominously  hollow. 

AMY. 
You  have  succeeded  in  escaping? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
I  doubt  if  I  could  have  performed  that 
miracle,  despite  my  impish  agility.  I  was 
released  by  an  old  devil  whose  earthly  name  's 
Alasco.  A  secret  passage,  cut  in  the  wall,  led 
from  my  cell  to  his  laboratory.  Oh !  but 
't  was  not  kindness  of  heart  that  led  dear  Alasco 
to  set  me  free.  He  made  his  conditions.  I 
was  intrusted  with  the  delicate  mission  of 
carrying  you  away  from  here  while  sleeping. 
Sleeping  what  sort  of  sleep?  I  cannot  say.  I 
was  able  to  distinguish  a  few  words  of  a 
hurried  colloquy  betwixt  your  Varney  and  my 
Alasco.  Varney  came  to  fetch  a  draught 
ordered  by  Lord  Leicester  and  to  be  given  to 
Lady  Leicester.     That  draught  is  here. 

AMY. 
Of  what  is  it  composed  ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
There  can  be  no  mistake.     It  comes  from 
Alasco's  kitchen  ;  it  is  poison  ! 


126 


AAIV  ROBSART 


AMY. 
Poison  !  And  Leicester  sends  it  to  me? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
'T  was  he  wlio  ordered  it  to  be  compounded 
for  you. 

AMY. 

My  God,  forgive  me  ! 

(She  seizes  the  goblet  and  puts  it  quiclily  to  her  lips.) 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (seizing  her  arm). 
What   are    you    doing,    madame?      'T    is 
poison,  I  tell  you  !     Did  you  not  hear  me  ? 

AMY. 

Surely   I  heard ;  but   since  't  is  Leicester 

who  sends  the  poison  to  me   I   must  needs 

drink  it. 

(She puts  the  goblet  to  her  lips   once  more;  Flibberti- 
gibbet snatches  it  from  her.) 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

No  !  you  saved  my  life,  't  is  my  turn  now  ! 
To  the  devil  with  this  devil's  brew  ! 

(He  throws  the  goblet  on  the  floor.) 

You  will  see  that  within  the  hour  this  floor 
will  be  as  black  as  if  it  had  been  scorched  by 
Cerberus's  triple  breath. 

AMY  (fixing  her  eyes  upon  the  spilled  liquid). 
What  have  you  done  ?  what  will  become  of 
me  now  that  I  have  no  poison  ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
What  will  become  of  you,  my  noble  young 
lady  ?  By  Shakespeare  !  betwixt  a  husband 
who  poisons  you  by  way  of  divorce,  and  a 
Varney  who  covets  you,  there  is  but  one 
course  sanctioned  by  immemorial  usage  in  all 
tragedies,  comedies  and  pantomimes :   flight. 


AMY. 
Why  should  I  fly  ?  and  whither  should  I  fly  ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Good   lack !  have    you    not   somewhere  a 
family  ?  a  brother  ?  or  a  father  ? 

AMY. 
My  father !  Yes,  you  are  right,  my  father  ! 
Ah  !  now  I  conceive  that  I  am  released  from 
my  oath  !  I  will  tell  my  father  all !  I  will 
die,  justified  at  least,  and  forgiven.  Let  us 
fly,  yes,  let  us  fly  !     But,  how? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Why,  through  this  window,  which  is  but  one 
floor  above  the  trees  in  the  park.     Yesterday 
I  wished  to  terrify  Alasco  and  so  I  hid  a  ladder 
in  the  shrubbery  yonder  .  .  . 

(Leaning  out  of  the  window.) 

It  is  Still  there.     I  will  assist  you  to  climb 
down.     Mere  child's  play,  madame  ! 

AMY. 
Let  us  be  gone  !     I  long  to  find  my  father ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Stay  !  have  you  forgotten  nothing  ? 
(He  takes  the  pelisse  that  lies  upon  a  chair.) 
This  pelisse  .   .   . 

( Looking  on  the  table. ) 
What  is  this  parchment?      A  passport    from 
the   queen  !       Divine   goodness !    let   us   not 
neglect  this  precious  God-send  ! 

(He  bestows  the  parchment  in  his  breast.) 

Now  come,  come,  madame  ! 

AMY. 

God  be  my  guide  ! 

( Flibbertigibbet  assists  her  to  climb  through  the 
window.) 


Uoreau  de  Tours  inv 


i^^^Ki^ 


ACT   FOURTH 


The  park  of  Kenilworth.     At  the  back,  in  the  distance,  the  roofs  of  the  new  castle  can  be  seen 

through  the  trees. 


SCENE   I 

AMY,  FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 


(The  latter  comes  running  upon  the  stage.) 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Your  flight  's  discovered,  madame.  Alasco 
and  Foster  are  searching  the  woods  for  yoii. 
Luckily  one  is  old,  the  other  slow,  and  this 
rough,  densely  wooded  corner  of  the  park  is 
marvelously  adapted  for  the  game  of  hide- 
and-seek. 

AMY. 

We   must  inquire — ascertain   where  I   can 
find  my  father. 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
If  I  could  but  leave  you  alone  an  instant  I 
would  soon  find  a  way  to  bring  Sir  Hugh 
Robsart  to  you.  But,  hush !  some  one  is 
coming  yonder  !  God  !  the  Earl  of  Leicester 
with  his  worthy  squire  ! 

AMY  (bitterly'). 
Leicester  and  Varney !  alas,  the  two  con- 
spirators ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

Come,  madame,  come  !     All  is  lost  if  they 
should  see  you  ! 

(He  draws  her  into  a  thicket  at  the  left.) 
127 


128 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE   II 

LEICESTER,  VARNEY. 


LEICESTER. 
Speak  quickly  !     The  queen  is  even  now 
finishing  her  walk  around  the  lake.     I  am  in 
haste  to  join  her. 

VARNEY  (intensely  excited). 
My  lord  is  my  witness  that  I  had  given  the 
queen  to  understand  that  my  wife,  being  quite 
ill,  was  not  in  a  condition  to  be  presented  to 
her.  At  the  same  moment  word  was  sent  to 
me  that  she  had  fled  !  My  lord,  't  is  more 
than  resistance,  't  is  downright  rebellion. 

LEICESTER  (pensively). 
I    cannot    look   upon  this  resistance   as   a 
crime,  Varney;   't  would  be  to  make  a  crime 
of  her  love. 

VARNEY. 

The  countess  risks,  my  lord,  involving  you 
in  a  falsehood  .  .   . 

LEICESTER. 

She   remains   firm  in    her    straightforward 

loyalty.     That  is  the  path  that  I  should  follow, 

Varney,  and  not  the  one  whereinto  thou  dost 

lead  me. 

VARNEY. 

This  path  leads  to  grandeur  and  supreine 
power. 

LEICESTER. 

But  by  the  way  of  treachery  and  falsehood. 

VARNEY. 
Zounds  !   my  lord,    't   is  now  too    late  to 
recede.     Elizabeth,  blinded  less  by  you  than 


by  herself,  has  abandoned  herself  to  her  pas- 
sion with  a  recklessness  which  permits  you 
to  indulge  what  hopes  you  please,  but  which 
should  make  you  fear  the  worst.  When  her 
eyes  were  opened,  't  would  be  a  terrible 
awakening.  Imagine  the  possible  results  of 
an  insulted  woman's  wrath,  when  that  woman 
is  a  queen.  Beware  !  not  only  your  worldly 
goods  and  honors  are  at  stake,  but  your  life. 
And  the  countess  is  no  more  free  from  danger 
than  yourself.  The  queen  may  spare  the 
man  she  loves ;  but  would  she  spare  the  rival 
she  detests  ? 

LEICESTER. 
'T  is  because  of  Amy's  peril  that  I  now 
draw  back.     I  must  at  any  hazard  defend  her 
and  preserve  her. 

VARNEY. 
And  how  !     One  does  not  wage  war  with 
his  queen  ! 

LEICESTER  (reflecting). 
Therefore   will    I    not    attempt    it.       But 
to-morrow,  perhaps  to-night,   the  queen  will 
have  taken  leave  of  Kenilworth.  And  then  .  .  . 

VARNEY  (in  dismay). 

Great  God !  My  lord  cannot  think  of 
leaving  England !  my  lord  will  not  throw 
to  the  winds  in  exile  his  hopes  of  the  most 
brilliant  fortune  ever  dreamed  of  by  mortal 
man  ! 


ACT  IV— SCENE  II 


129 


LEICESTER. 
A  fortune  upon  which  yours  depends,  eh, 
Master   Varney?      But    I    rely    upon     your 

devotion  ... 

VARNEY. 
My  lord  !   .   .  . 

LEICESTER. 

Enough !    let   your   people   search    for  the 
countess  !     Not  to  carry  her  away,  but  so  that 


1  may  speak  with  her.     Come,  let  us  join  the 
queen. 

(K.\it  Leicester.) 

VARNEY  (following  him,  aside). 
If  he  leaves  the   country,  I  am  a   ruined 
man  !     If  he  sees  the  countess  again,  I  am  a 
dead  man ! 

(He  overtakes  Leicester.) 


I30 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE    III 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET,  AMY;  afterward  VARNEY. 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

( lie  emerges  from  the  thicket  and  looks  after  Leicester 
and  Varney. ) 

There  they  go.  Come,  my  lady ;  you  can 
safely  come  forth  from  your  citadel  of  shrub- 
bery ;  but  look  well  to  your  lovely  eyes,  for  I 
have  never  seen  branches  more  inclined  to 
caress  one's  eyelids  with  their  thorns. 

(Amy  appears.) 
AMY. 
To  think  that  I  must  hide  from  Leicester  as 
from  an  enemy. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

And  I  go  now  to  find  for  you  your  natural 

protector   against   that  enemy,    your    father. 

See,  conceal  yourself  yonder  at  the  corner  of 

the  fountain,  whence  you  may  at  need  return 

to  the  thicket. 

(He  leads  her  to  the  spot  indicated.    Varney  reappears 
at  the  back  of  the  stage.) 

VARNEY. 
Methought  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  knave 
Flibbertigibbet. 


(Spying  Amy.) 

Oho  !  the  countess  !     What  should  I  do  ! 

Suppose  I  venture  to — ?    'T  would  be  a  bold 

stroke  !    But  my  audacity  has  met  with  success 

hitherto,  and,  in  my  present  plight,  I  must  risk 

everything  to  save  everything. 

(He  retires.) 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (to  Amy). 
Await  me  here,  my  lady  ;  within  the  quarter 
I  will  be  here  again  with  Sir  Hugh  Robsart. 

( Exit  Flibbertigibbet. ) 
AMY  (alone). 
I  abandoned  my  father  to  go  with  my  hus- 
band, and  lo !  to-day  I  have  but  the  one 
thought,  to  leave  my  husband  and  rejoin  my 
father.  O  Leicester  !  can  it  be  that  after  thou 
didst  seek  to  force  me  to  become  thy  servant's 
wife  in  name,  thou  hast  sought  to  poison  me? 
Alas  !  he  who  is  capable  of  dastard  deeds  is 
capable  of  crime.  Where  is  he,  the  great  earl, 
the  noble  Dudley  ?  All  is  over  !  In  my  heart 
no  longer  lives  one  spark  of  love  for  him  ; 
scorn  has  poured  water  on  it  all.  I  do  not 
even  hate  him. 

(She  has  seated  herself  upon  the  base  of  a  statue  beside 
the  fountain.     Enters  the  queen. ) 


ACT  IV— SCENE  IV 


131 


SCENE   IV 

AMY,   ELIZABETH. 


ELIZABETH  (reading  a  note). 
What  means  this  mysterious  scroll?  "Let 
the  queen  betake  herself  alone  to  the  fountain 
of  Neptune."     This  is  the  place. 
(Discovering  Amy.) 
What  woman  is  this  ? 

AMY. 
The  queen  !    O  Heaven  !   the  queen  !   it  is 

the  queen  ! 

ELIZABETH. 

How  now  !    Woman,  what  do  you  here? 

AMY. 
Your  Majesty — I  was  but  passing  by,  I  will 

retire. 

ELIZABETH. 

Nay,  speak.  You  seem  in  trouble  and  like 
to  swoon.  Be  not  alarmed,  maiden,  you  are 
before  your  queen. 

AMY. 

'T  is  for  that  reason  that  I  tremble,  madame. 

ELIZABETH. 
Be  not  alarmed,  I  say !     Have  you  some 
favor  to  ask  at  our  hands  ? 

AMY. 
Madame  !    Ah  !  yes,  I  ask  your  protection, 
madame. 

(She  falls  on  her  knees  at  the  queen's  feet.) 

ELIZABETH. 
Every    maiden     in     our    realm     hath    an 
tmdoubted  right   thereto,   if  she  deserve    it. 


Rise,  and  collect  your  thoughts.  Who  are 
you?  Wherefore  and  wherein  can  our  pro- 
tection be  of  use  to  you  ? 

AMY. 
Madame — what  can  I  say  ?  I  know  not  .  .  . 

ELIZABETH. 
This  much  resembles  madness.     'T  is  not 
our  wont   to   ask  a    question  twice   without 
reply. 

AMY. 

I  beseech  you — I  implore  your  Majesty. 
Deign  to  command  that  my  father  be  given 
back  to  me. 

ELIZABETH. 

Good  lack  !  first  I  must  know  your  father. 
Who  are  you  ?  who  is  he  ? 

AMY. 
I  am  Amy,  Sir  Hugh  Robsart's  daughter. 

ELIZABETH. 
Robsart  !  By  my  soul,  for  two  days  past  I 
have  heard  naught  but  of  that  family.  The 
father  asks  me  for  his  daughter,  the  daughter 
asks  me  for  her  father.  You  do  not  tell  me 
yet  all  that  you  are.     You  are  married  ? 

AMY. 
Married !      O    God !     you    know  ?      Yes, 
madame,    it    is   true  —  forgive,    oh!     forgive 
me  !     In  the  name  of  your  glorious  crown, 
pardon  ! 


132 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


ELIZABETH. 
Forgive  you,  my  child  ?  Why,  what  have  I 
to  forgive?  'T  is  your  father's  business,  whom 
you  have  deceived.  You  see,  I  know  your  wliole 
story ;  your  blush  confirms  it.  You  allowed 
yourself  to  be  seduced  and  kidnapped  .  .   . 

AMY  (proudly). 
True,  madame ;  but  he  who  seduced  and 
kidnapped  me,  has  married  me. 

ELIZABETH. 

Even  so  ;  I  know  that   you  have  repaired 

your  error  by  marrying  your  seducer,  Varney 

the  squire. 

AMY. 

Varney  !  oh  !  no,  madame,  no ;  as  there  is 
a  heaven  above  our  heads,  I  am  not  the  vile 
creature  you  deem  me  !  I  am  not  the  despica- 
ble Varney's  wife. 

ELIZABETH. 

How  now?     What  means  this?     Woman, 

meseems  one  hath  not  need  to  tear  the  words 

from  you,  when  the  subject  suits  your  whim  ! 

(As  if  speaking  to  herself.) 

Whose  plaything  am  I  now?    Some  degrad- 
ing mystery  is  hidden  here. 
(Aloud.) 
Amy  Robsart,  't  was   in    the   presence  of 
the  noble  Earl  of  Leicester,  his  master,  that 
Varney  declared  himself  thy  husband. 


AMY  (sorrowfully). 
In  the  earl's  presence  ! 

ELIZABETH. 
Aye  !  but  prithee  tell  me  whom  thou  hast 
married  ?  By  the  sun  that  shines  upon  us  I 
will  know  whose  mistress  or  whose  wife  thou 
art.  Come !  speak,  and  quickly,  for  thou 
wouldst  incur  less  risk  in  playing  with  a  lioness, 
than  in  deceiving  Elizabeth  of  England. 

AMY. 

Ask  the  Earl  of  Leicester ;  he  knows  the 
truth. 

ELIZABETH. 

Leicester!  the  Earl  of  Leicester  !  Woman, 
thou  doth  slander  him  !  Who  set  thee  on  to 
utter  that  hateful  lie?  Who  hath  suborned 
thee  to  insult  the  noblest  nobleman,  the  most 
loyal  gentleman  within  this  realm  ?  Come 
instantly  with  me.  But  here  he  comes  him- 
self in  search  of  us. 

(Raising  her  voice.) 
This  way  !  this  way !  Even  were  he  dearer 
to  us  than  our  right  hand,  thou  shouldst  be 
confronted  with  him;  thou  shalt  be  heard  in 
his  presence,  that  I  may  know  what  man  or 
woman  in  England  is  so  bereft  of  sense  as  to 
lie  to  the  daughter  of  King  Henry  Eighth  ! 


ACT  IV— SCENE    V 


^11 


SCENE   V 

AMY,   ELIZABETH,   LEICESTER,  VARNEY,   THE   WHOLE   COURT. 


(Elizabeth  has  her  eyes  fixed  upon  Leicester.     Amy  is 
pale  as  death  and  almost  fainting.) 

LEICESTER  (aside,  with  a  gesture  of  dismay). 
Heaven  !    Amy  with  the  queen  ! 

ELIZABETH   (aside). 
How  pale  he  grows  ! 

(Aloud.) 
My   Lord    of    Leicester,    know    you    this 
woman  ? 

LEICESTER  (in  a  low  tone). 
Madame  .   .  . 

ELIZABETH  (more  forcibly). 

My   Lord    of    Leicester,    know    you    this 

woman  ? 

LEICESTER. 

Will  the  queen  deign  to  give  me  leave  to 

explain  .  .   . 

ELIZABETH. 

Is   it   I   whom    you    have    dared    deceive? 

L  your   benefactress,  your  trusting   and   too 

weak  sovereign  ?     Your   confusion   seems   to 

avow    your    treachery.       If    there   be   aught 

sacred  on  this  earth,  I  swear  by  that,  disloyal 

earl,  your  perfidy  shall  be  fitly  rewarded  ! 

LEICESTER  (abashed). 
I  have  not  purposed  to  deceive  you,  madame. 

ELIZABETH. 
Is   it   so?     Ah!    my  lord,  methinks   your 
head  is  in  as  great  peril  now  as  ever  was  your 
father's. 

AMY  (aside). 

O  God  ! 


LEICESTER  (drawing  himself  up,  and  speaking  in 
a  firm  voice). 

My  head,  O  queen,  can  fall  only  upon  the 

sentence  of   my  peers.     At   the   bar  of   the 

imperial  English  Parliament  I  will   plead  my 

cause,  and  not  before  a  princess   who   thus 

rewards  my  faithful  services.     Your  Majesty's 

sceptre  is  not  a  fairy  wand  wherewith  to  build 

my  scaffold  in  a  single  day. 

ELIZABETH. 
My  lords,  who  stand  about  me,  you  have 
heard  !  Meseems  we  are  defied  and  set  at 
naught  even  in  the  castle  which  this  pre- 
sumptuous man  owes  to  our  royal  generosity  ! 
My  Lord  Shrewsbury,  as  Earl-marshal  of 
England  you  will  proceed  against  this  rebel 
for  high  treason. 

AMY  (aside). 

Just  Heaven  !    I  knew  not  that  I  loved  him 
still  so  dearly ! 

ELIZABETH. 

Raise  not  your  head  so  proudly,  Dudley, 
Earl  of  Leicester.  Our  father  Henry  Eighth, 
of  illustrious  memory,  cut  off  the  heads  that 
would  not  bend.  Hunsdon,  my  good  cousin, 
look  to  it  that  the  gentlemen  pensioners  of 
our  suite  are  in  readiness ;  let  this  man  be 
placed  in  custody.  Let  him  give  up  his 
sword,  and  let  it  be  done  with  all  speed  !  I 
have  spoken. 
( Hunsdon  dr.iws  his  sword  ;    three  gentlemen  advance 

toward   Leicester,  who  stands  calm   and   unmoved. 

Amy  throws  herself  at  the  queen's  feet. ) 


134 


AAfV  ROBS  ART 


AMY. 
No  !  no,  madame  !     Mercy  !   justice  !     He 
is  not  guilty  !  he  is  not  guilty  !     No  one  can 
accuse  the  noble  Earl  of  Leicester  in  aught ! 

ELIZABETH. 
By  my  soul,  ray  child,  this  is  amazing  !    Did 
not  you  yourself  accuse  him  but  now  ?     Did 
you  slander  him,  pray  ? 

AMY. 
Did  I  accuse  him,  madame?    Oh  !   if  I  did 
accuse    him,   assuredly  I    slandered    him.      I 
alone  deserve  your  wrath. 

ELIZABETH. 

Beware,  mad  creature  that  you  are !     Said 

you  not  a  moment  since  that  I  had   but  to 

question  the  earl,  that  he  knew  your  whole 

story? 

AMY. 

I  know  not  what  I  said,  madame ;  my  life 

was  threatened,  I   was  misled,  my  mind   was 

confused  .  .   . 

ELIZABETH. 

Who  is  your  husband  or  your  lover,  Amy 
Robsart,  if,  as  you  declared  but  now,  you  are 
not  Varney's  wife ! 

LEICESTER  (coming  forward). 
I    must     make    my    confession     to     your 

Majesty  .   .   . 

ELIZABETH. 

My  lord,  allow  this  woman  to  speak. 
AMY. 


Madame ! 


O  Heaven  ! 


(Aside.) 


(Aloud.) 
Yes,  madame,  I  am  Varney's  wife  ! 

LEICESTER  (aside). 
Too  generous  Amy  !     Ah  me  !  if,  by  sacri- 
ficing myself,  I   need  not  sacrifice  her  with 
me !   .   .   . 


ELIZABETH. 
So  you  confess,  young  woman,  that  all  the 
confusion  you  have  witnessed  was  born  of 
your  impudent  falsehoods  and  your  absurd 
impostures  ?  You  confess  that  you  came 
hither  to  tarnish  the  illustrious  Earl  of 
Leicester's  fame,  and  ruin  him  in  our  esteem  ? 

AMY. 
I  needs  must  confess  it. 

LEICESTER  (aside). 
Ah  !  her  devotion  tears  my  heart ! 

(Aloud.) 
Will  your  Majesty  now  deign  to  hear  me  ? 

ELIZABETH  (smiling  upon  him). 
One  moment  still,  dear  noble  earl ;  we 
pray  you,  let  us  have  the  joy  of  seeing  your 
innocence  declare  itself.  Your  enemies  have 
set  this  unhappy  creature  upon  you.  Let  us 
question  her. 

VARNEY  (stepping  forward). 

Madame,  she  is  not  so  guilty  as  she  seems 

to  your  Majesty  to  be  !     I   hoped   that   her 

malady  might  have  remained  concealed.     But 

the  queen  must  have  noticed  that  her  mind 

wanders. 

LEICESTER  (aside). 
Caitiff! 

AMY  (aside). 

I  must  carry  out  the  sacrifice  even  to  the 

end. 

ELIZABETH. 

In  truth.  Sir  Richard  Varney,  I  incline 
rather  to  the  belief  that  your  master's  enemies 
have  made  use  of  your  wife  as  an  instrument 
to  weaken  what  they  have  but  strengthened. 
This  evening  we  take  our  leave  of  Kenilworth  ; 
we  will  leave  orders.  Awaiting  our  final 
determination,  let  this  woman  be  consigned 
to  the  prison  in  the  tower.  Lord  Hunsdon, 
this  prisoner  is  in  your  keeping.     Let  her  be 


ACT  IV— SCENE    V 


135 


closely  watched,  and  give  order  that  no  per- 
son—no person,  even  were  it  the  lord  of  this 
castle — hold  communication  with  her  unless 
he  be  provided  with  a  safe-conduct,  signed  by 
our  own  hand.     You  hear,  my  lord. 

(Lord  Ilunsdon  bows.     Amy  is  led  away.) 


LEICESTER  (aside). 
O  misery  !  my  beloved  Amy  1 

AMY. 
If  I  die  now,  at  least  't  will  be  for  him  1 


ACT  FIFTH 


Interior  of  the  round  tower  of  the  dungeons.  Old  Norman  style  of  architecture.  Above  the  walls  can 
be  seen  the  base  of  the  interior  cone  of  the  roof.  At  the  centre  of  the  back  of  the  stage  an  iron  door.  At 
the  right  of  this  door  a  small  barred  window.  At  the  left  a  couch.  A  great  beam,  which  supjjorts  the  roof, 
runs  from  side  to  side  of  the  tower  overhead. 


SCENE    1 

AMY  (alone). 


(She  is  sitting  on  the  couch,  pale,  and  with  disheveled 
hair.) 

The  sacrifice  is  consummated !  I  know  not 
how  it  is  that,  through  the  sin  of  loving,  I 
have  become  almost  a  State  criminal.  The 
queen  's  my  rival !  the  queen  !  and  doubtless 
her  wrath  will  not  have  fallen  on  me  to  no 
purpose.  To-day,  a  prison ;  to-morrow — 
Dudley  !  they  say  that  thou  wouldst  take  my 
life.  I  much  prefer  to  forestall  thee  and  to 
give  it  thee.  For  thee  the  throne,  for  me 
the  tomb.     I  go,  and  thou  'It  remain  with 


this  Elizabeth,  who  is  a  queen.  O  fearful 
thought !  that  while  she  trembles  in  thy  arms, 
I  shall  be  lying  on  the  solitary  ice-cold  pillow 
of  the  sepulchre  !  O  agony  !  how  keen  and 
heart-rending  is  jealousy  when  one  is  soon 
to  die ! 

(She  hides  her  face  in  her  hands  and  weeps.  At  this 
moment  a  door  in  the  wall  at  the  right,  concealed 
by  the  carving,  turns  noiselessly  on  its  hinges  to 
admit  Flibbertigibbet,  then  closes  as  noiselessly. 
Flibbertigibbet  walks  slowly  forward  a  few  steps 
and  stands  in  front  of  Amy,  who  has  not  raised  her 
eyes.) 


138 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE  II 

AMY,  FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 


AMY.  (She  does  not  see  Flibbertigibbet. ) 
Is  not  this  dungeon  death?  Am  I  not 
already  cast  out  from  the  world  of  the  living? 
Wliere  is  the  ear  that  can  hear  my  voice  ? 
Where  is  the  hand  that  can  reach  out  and 
touch  my  hand  ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (without  changing  his  position). 

Here. 

AMY. 
Who  'sthat? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Flibbertigibbet,  at  your  service. 

AMY. 
You  !     Pray,  are  you  in  truth  a  sorcerer  or 
devil's  imp  that  you  can  make  your  way  to 
this  impenetrable  dungeon,  without,  may  God 
forgive  you,  the  door  being  opened? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Unhappily  God  has  nothing  of  that  sort  to 
forgive  me,  noble  lady. 

AMY. 
But  tell  me  how  you  did  come  in? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
As  you  will  go  out,  my  lady. 

AMY. 
I  cannot  understand  .  .  . 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
'T  is  very  simple. 
(He  points  with  his  finger  to  the  maslied  door.) 
Yonder  is  a  door. 


AMY. 
Is  it  so?    And  whither  does  it  lead? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
I  have  already  told  you  ;  it  leads,  by  a  secret 
staircase,  to  Alasco's  laboratory,  and  thence 
to  the  large  room  whence  you  have  escaped 
once  already,  and  whence,  thanks  to  God  or 
the  devil,  you  will  escape  a  second  time.  But 
let  us  make  haste  !  I  know  not  by  what  lucky 
chance  old  Alasco  was  not  in  his  laboratory. 
He  may  soon  return,  and  our  expedition  would 
become  difficult.     Come,  come,  madame. 

(He  talies  a  step  toward  the  secret  door) 
AMY. 
I  thank  thee,  my  poor  friend,  but  cannot 
follow  thee. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

What  say  you  ? 

AMY. 

Fly  quickly.     If  thou  shouldst  be  surprised 

here  .  .  . 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

My  safety  is  of  mighty  consequence  !     But 
you? 


AMY. 


I  remain. 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (stamping  on  the  floor). 
Look  you !  do  you  think  that  I  came  here 
simply  to  go  away  as  I  came  ?  Do  you  think 
that  I  will  leave  you  in  this  damp,  cold 
dungeon,  with  the  owls  and  bats,  spiders 
around  your  bed,  and  jailers  at  your  door, 


ACT  V—SCENE  II 


139 


while  there  is  pure,  free  air  without,  and 
fields,  woods  and  streams?  If  you  propose 
to  allow  yourself  to  die  in  this  dungeon,  you 
should  not  have  saved  my  life.  Come ! 
follow  me  !  follow  me  ! 

AMY. 

I  cannot,  my  poor  friend.  Am  I  not  con- 
demned to  death  by  him  to  whom  my  breath 
and  my  life  belong  ?  If  I  had  my  liberty, 
what  should  I  do  with  my  life?  Is  not 
Dudley  faithless?  Did  not  Dudley  seek  to 
poison  me?  Did  not  Dudley  abandon  me 
to  his  Varney?  Is  not  Dudley  to  marry 
Elizabeth? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

La,  la,  la !  that  is  all  old,  madame.  The 
scene  has  changed.  Your  Dudley  is  not 
faithless,  he  did  not  seek  to  poison  you,  he 
did  not  abandon  you  to  his  squire  Satan- 
Varney,  and,  far  from  thinking  of  marrying 
the  queen,  he  is  at  this  moment  planning  an 
act  of  high  treason  against  her.  I  mean  your 
rescue. 

AMY  (clasping  her  hands). 
Can  it  be  ?     Dost  thou  say  truly  ? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
'T  was  Varney  alone  who  invented   it  all, 
planned  it  all,  did  it  all — he  alone  is  answer- 
able for  everything  ! 

AMY. 
Ah  !  that  is  what  I  thought  at  first !     O  my 
Dudley,  how  guilty  I  have  been  toward  thee. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Nor  is  that  all.  Your  father  knows  of  your 
marriage ;  he  has  become  reconciled  to  your 
husband ;  they  are  at  this  moment  together 
concerting  measures  to  save  you  ;  they  are,  it 
may  be,  waiting  for  you  without.  Do  you 
choose  still  to  remain  ?  Do  you  wish  to  make 
them  wait  in  vain? 


AMY. 
Oh  !  no  !  haste  !  haste  !  make  haste  to  take 
me  to  my  lord  !  to  my  father  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
At  last !     The  bolt  is  drawn !     Let  us  not 
waste  a  second  !   follow  me. 

( He  runs  to  the  masked  door,  and  tries  to  open  it,  but 
it  resists.  He  tries  again,  but  to  no  purpose.  He 
cannot  even  shake  the  door.     He  returns  in  blank 

■  dismay  to  Amy,  who  watches  him,  trembUng  with 
anxiety.) 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

Locked  !  the  door  is  locked  and  bolted  on 

the   outer  side !      Alasco   and   Varney   have 

returned.     That  empty  room  above  was  but  a 

snare ! 

AMY. 

So  you  are  lost  with  me  for  having  tried  to 
save  me.  Unhappy  creature  that  I  am  1  ray 
evil  fortune  is  contagious. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
In    God's    name   say    na  more    to   me   of 
myself!     I  have  naught  to  lose  !     'T  is  you 
who  lose  everything ! 

AMY. 
Yes,  I  have  fallen  back  into  the  darkness  of 
my  dungeon  !    The  last  ray  of  hope  is  blotted 
out. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (drawing  himself  up). 

The  last  ?    not  so,  dear  noble  lady !     We 

must  never  despair.     Your  husband  and  your 

father  are  at   this  very  moment   seeking   to 

effect   your   rescue.     If  one  could   but  look 

from  yonder  window  ! 

(He  places  a  wooden  stool  beneath  the  window,  and 
stands  on  tip-toe  upon  it,  trying  to  look  out. ) 

The  sun  is  sinking  behind  the  trees  in  the 
park.  We  have  not  a  half  hour  of  daylight. 
Ah !  what  do  I  see  down  yonder  in  the 
gathering  twilight.  Two  men  wrapped  in 
cloaks.     They  walk  toward  the  tower.     They 


140 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


pause  at  the  foot  of  the  wall.     They  measure 

its   height   with   their    eyes.      Madame,   my 

lady,  't  is  they. 

AMY. 
Who? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Your  father  and  your  husband  ! 

AMY. 
My  father !    my  husband  !      Are   you   not 
mistaken  ?     Let  me  look  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (jumping  down  from  the  stool). 
Look,  madame. 

AMY  (taking  his  place  at  the  window). 

Ah  !  God  !  yes,  there  he  is  !     'T  is  he,  my 

Dudley  !     Ah  !   how  hard  it  is  to  see  betwixt 

these  bars ! 

(Calhng.) 

Father  !  my  lord  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
The  tower  is  too  high  for  them  to  hear  you. 
But  wave  your  handkerchief;  perchance  they 
will  see  that. 

(Amy  waves  her  handkerchief  outside  the  bars.) 
AMY. 

Yes,  yes,  they  have  spied  it !     They  raise 
their  hats. 

(Piteously.) 
But  I  see  them  and  they  cannot  see  me  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

No  matter  !  they  are  warned,  and  they  will 
soon  set  you  free. 

AMY  (shaking  her  head). 
Set  me  free  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Assuredly.     What  doors  would  not  fly  open 
before  the  lord  of  this  castle?     He  has  the 
power  and  he  has  the  gold. 


AMY. 

But  those  will  not  suffice  to-day.     He  will 

not  enter  this  tower.    You  do  not  know,  thou 

dost  not  know,  my  poor  friend,  what  orders 

the  queen  gave.     No  one  can  enter  here,  no 

one. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

What !  not  even  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  the 
all-powerful  minister  ? 

AMY. 
He,  least  of  all.     No  one  will  enter  here,  I 
tell  thee,  unless  he  have  a  safe-conduct  signed 
by  the  queen's  hand. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Excellent !    In  that  case,  what  we  need  is 
the  queen's  safe-conduct? 

AMY. 

Surely. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET  (taking  a  parchment  from  his 
pocket). 

Here  it  is,  madame. 

AMY  (taking  the  parchment). 
What !     the    queen's   signature  !      This   is 
downright  magic  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Nay,    forethought.     I   found    this  talisman 
upon  your  table  yesterday. 

AMY. 
Ah !   yes,  I  remember.      My  father's  safe- 
conduct. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 

I  did  well  not  to  forget  it  as  he  did.  And 
now,  madame,  quickly  wave  your  handkerchief 
once  more,  and  throw  this  parchment  down 
to  your  rescuers. 

AMY  (waving  lier  handkerchief). 
They  see  my  signal. 

(She  throws  down  the  parchment.) 
God  guide  its  flight  ! 


ACT  F— SCENE  II 


141 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Follow  it  with  your  eyes.     What  becomes 

of  it? 

AMY. 

It  falls.     It  twists   and  turns.     Now  't  is 

among  the  tree-tops. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
God  grant  it  do  not  lodge  there  ! 

AMY. 
No,  it  falls.     At  last  't  is  on  the  ground, 
before  them. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Have  they  it  ? 


They  have  it ! 


AMY. 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
We  are  saved  ! 

AMY. 

My  Dudley  kisses  the  paper.  He  signals  to 
me.  Now  they  both  bend  their  steps  toward 
the  postern  gate.  The  corner  of  the  wall  steals 
them  from  me,  1  no  longer  see  them. 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
'T  is  but  to  see  them  soon  again,  and  nearer 
at  hand,  noble  lady. 

AMY  (leaving  the  window). 
God  be  praised  ! 

(.She  glances  at  her  disordered  dress.) 
He  is   coming.      In   what  plight  am  I  to 
receive  him?     Hair  in  disorder,  my  dress  all 
awry  .  .  . 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Most  promising  sign  !  sadness  gives  place  to 
coquetry  !     But  methinks  I  hear  steps. 

(He  listens  at  the  iron  door.) 

'T  is  the  step  of  more  than  one.  Why  in 
God's  name  does  the  floor  of  the  corridor 
give  forth  such  a  hollow  sound  ? 

(A  key  is  heard  in  the  lock.) 

They  're  opening  the  door,  madame ! 
(The  iron  door  opens.    Enter  Sir  Hugh  and  Leicester.) 


143 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE   III 

The  Same:   LEICESTER,  SIR  HUGH. 


AMY  (throwing  herself  into  Leicester's  arms). 
My  lord  ! 

LEICESTER  (straining  her  to  his  heart). 
My  best  beloved ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
She  was  as  pale  as  a  corpse,  and  now  she  's 
as  rosy  as  a  bride.     These  maids  change  color 
more  often  and  more  quickly  than  the  star 
Aldebaran. 

LEICESTER. 
Well  mightst  thou  look  coldly  on  me,  Amy. 
How  shall  I  ever  undo  the  wrong  I  did  thee? 
Oh  !  forgive  me  ! 

AMY   (still  in  his  arms). 
Ah  !  't  is  from  thee,  my  dear  and  noble  lord, 
that  all  forgiveness  must  proceed.     Of  what 
did  I  dare  suspect  thee? 

(To  Sir  Hugh.) 
And,  father,  have  you  too  forgiven  me  ?  do 
you  forgive  me  ? 

SIR  HUGH  (throwing  his  arms  about  them  both). 
My  daughter  ! — my  child  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Bethink  you  that   the   door  stands  open : 
why  do  we  delay  ? 

LEICESTER. 
He  is  right,  time  is  precious.     Listen,  my 
beloved ;    all  is  prepared  for  thy  flight  and 
mine.     An  hour  hence  a  carriage  will  await 


us  in  the  wood.  Sure  friends,  Strathallan  and 
the  Earl  of  Fife,  will  cover  our  flight.  A  brig, 
ready  to  make  sail  for  Flanders,  will  receive 
us  on  the  coast ;  and  ere  the  dawti  we  shall 
be  sailing  away  toward  happiness,  both  set 
free,  thou  from  thy  prison,  I  from  the  court. 

AMY. 
How  now,  my  lord  !  for  me  you  will 
abandon  honor,  rank,  favor,  fortune,  and  the 
glorious  stage  where  Europe  gazes  admiringly 
upon  you  ?  What  sacrifices  for  a  poor 
woman  ! 

LEICESTER. 

That  poor  woman,  as  thou  namest  her,  has 
made  many  a  harder  sacrifice  for  me. 

AMY. 

You  condemn  yourself  to  exile  ! 

LEICESTER. 

Art  not  thou  my  country  ? 

AMY. 
But,  Dudley,  thou  dost  renounce  everything. 

LEICESTER. 
Nothing  at  all,  for  thou  art  everything  to 

Dudley. 

AMY. 

Who  knows  ?  perchance  a  throne  ! 

LEICESTER. 

A  throne?     Nay,  something  tells  me  that, 
when   I  leave  the  queen   to  go  with  thee,  I 


ACT  V— SCENE  III 


143 


renounce  naught  save  the  chance  of  ascend- 
ing, some  fine  morning,  not  the  steps  of  a 
throne,  but  the  ladder  of  a  scaffold. 

SIR  liUUII. 
My  lord,  do  not  forget  that  at  this  hour  this 
imperious  queen  awaits  your  coming. 

LEICESTER. 
True ;  we  must  leave  thee,  dearest  wife. 

AMY. 

What !  do  you  not  take  me  with  you  ? 
LEICESTER. 

Nay,  not  yet.  An  hour  hence  the  queen 
will  have  left  Kenilworth  behind.  At  this 
moment  her  retinue  still  throngs  the  castle, 
and  thy  flight  would  be  impossible.  I  go  to 
hold  her  stirrup  ;  as  soon  as  she  has  taken  her 
departure,  I  will  return.  Kenilworth  will  be 
deserted,  and,  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  I 
will  carry  thee  away  from  this  ghastly  dungeon. 

AMY  (smiling). 
'T  will   be  the  second  time  that   you  have 
carried  me  away,  my  lord — Ah !   pardon  me, 
father ! 


LEICESTER  (to  Flibbertigibbet). 
Do  thou  go  with  us,  devil's  imp ;  I  need  thy 
assistance  to  put  everything  in  readiness  while 
I  am  in  attendance  on  the  queen. 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
At  your  service,  my  lord. 

AMY. 
Must  I  remain  alone  ? 

LEICESTER. 
An  hour  at  the  most,  my  dearest  love. 

AMY  (clingingto  his  neck). 
Do  you  remember,  my  lord,  that  in  the 
early  days  of  our  love  the  blast  of  your  horn 
told  me  of  your  presence  in  the  Devon  woods  ? 
To-night,  you  must  make  known  your  return 
to  me  in  the  same  way. 


I  promise. 
Farewell. 

Farewell. 

(They  embrace. 


LEICESTER. 
Be   happy  and   have  no  fear. 

AMY. 

Exit  the  earl,  with   Sir   Hugh  and 
Flibbertigibbet. ) 


144 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE    IV 


AMY  (alone). 


Farewell ! — there  's  something  most  impres- 
sive in  that  word  ;  it  is  as  if  one  were  resigned 
to  an  eternal  parting  ! 

(She  sits  upon  the  bed  and  muses.) 
They  are  gone  ;  I  can  no  longer  hear  their 
steps.  Once  more  I  am  alone.  I  know  not 
why  sad  thoughts  return  and  fill  my  mind. 
Am  I  not,  shall  I  not  soon  be  hajipy?  Shall 
I  not  soon  be  free — free  to  see  and  hear  him — 
free  to  love  him  ?  My  head  and  body  are 
worn  out ;  the  varying  emotions  of  this  day 
have  overpowered  me.     Would  it  not  be  well 


to  take  a  little  rest  before  setting  out  upon 

this  journey. 

( .She  lies  down  upon  the  bed. ) 

This  journey  that   's  to  lead   me  to  perfect 

bliss  ! 

(Gradually  her  voice  becomes  weaker,  and  her  mind 
seems  to  grow  dull.) 

O    my    Dudley  !    what  a    blessed    future ! 

Exile,   but  exile  where  thou  wilt   be;    some 

sequestered    retreat ;    long    days    with    thee, 

beside  thee  ;  a  life  of  love  and  freedom  from 

all  care.     God  grant  it  's  not  a  dream  ! 

(She  sleeps.) 


ACT  V— SCENE    V 


145 


SCENE   V 

VARNEV,  ALASCO. 


(As  Amy  falls  asleep,  the  masked  door  is  partly 
opened ;  Varney  thrusts  his  head  in  and  makes  sure 
that  the  countess  is  asleep  ;  then  he  enters,  leading 
Alasco  by  the  hand  ;  the  latter  follows  him  with 
apparent  impatience.) 

VARNEY. 
She  is  asleep ! 

(To  Alasco.) 
Zounds,  man,  come  !  come  quickly  ! 

ALASCO  (placing  a  lighted  copper  lamp  upon  a  stool). 
Why  do  you  thus  drag  me  about  after  you  ? 
My  time  is  not  so  cheap  that  I  can  waste  it 
listening  at  doors  in  your  coinpany.  I  was 
engaged  upon  a  task  of  supreme  importance. 
I  have  three  retorts  upon  the  furnace,  filled 
with  a  substance  of  such  dangerous  properties, 
that  the  least  drop  falling  in  the  fire  would 
overturn  this  tower. 

VARNEV. 
Alasco,  didst  thou  hear? 

ALASCO. 
I  did  not  listen. 

VARNEY. 
The  Earl  of  Leicester  means  to  fly,  to  fly 
with  his  wife  !  and  a  few  hours  hence,  if  his 
purpose  be  accomplished,  the  favorite  will  be 
an  exile,  and  the  favorite's  squire  will  fall 
from  the  height  he  has  attained,  a  hundred 
times  lower  than  the  point  at  which  he  began 
to  ascend  ! 

ALASCO. 

What  matters  it  to  me  ? 


VARNEY. 
What  matters  it  to  thee?  The  exile's 
property  will  be  confiscated,  and  the  domain 
of  Cumnor  will  undergo  a  like  fate  with  the 
rest.  Farewell  to  thy  laboratory,  thy  work- 
shop, thy  pharinacy  of  philters,  thy  poison 
kitchen  !     Thou  seest  that  it  matters  to  thee  ! 

ALASCO. 
Even  so  !    What  is  the  source  of  all   these 
woes  of  thine?     The  flight  of  this  bird.     Go 
warn  Elizabeth,  and  the  cage  will  not  open. 

VARNEY. 
Better  than  that  !  't  will  open  to  receive  the 
earl.     Elizabeth  will  send  him  to  consummate 
his  nuptials  with  Amy  upon  the  scaffold.  And 
what  shall  I  have  gained  by  that  ? 

ALASCO. 

The  queen  will  hold   you  dear   for  having 

undeceived  her. 

VARNEY. 

Hold  me  dear  ?  she  will  hold  me  in  horror 

rather  !     If  I  were  not  punished  for  my  good 

ofliices,  the  best  I  could  expect  would  be  to  be 

forgotten. 

ALASCO. 

Then  do  not  tell  her  that  't  was  the  earl 
who  planned  his  wife's  escape. 

VARNEY. 
In   that   case   he   remains   powerful   and   a 
favorite,    and,    sooner   or   later,    under    one 


V 


146 


AMY  ROBSART 


J 


pretext   or   another,  his  vengeance  will   fall 
upon  me. 

ALASCO. 
Well,  if  all  ways  are  bad  .  .  . 

VARNEY. 
Not  all ! 

(He  draws  near  Alasco  and  lowers  liis  voice.) 

Alasco,  if  fate  should  strike  this  woman 
down,  this  Amy,  who  leads  the  earl  into  so 
many  acts  of  madness ;  if  she  should  dis- 
appear from  the  world  ;  if  she  should  die — a 
natural  death, — what  think  you  would  become 
of  Leicester  ? 

ALASCO. 

He  would  forget  her.  He  would  remain 
the  fortunateminister,  the  all-powerful  favorite, 
the  great  earl  who  gives  festivals  and  spectacles 
to  queens. 

VARNEY. 

And  we,  Alasco,  should  follow  in  his  train, 
in  peace,  rising  as  he  rose,  and  finding  our- 
selves earls  or  barons  on  the  day  when  he 
awoke  a  king. 

ALASCO. 

As  thou  sayest,  —  Baron  Varney,  Prince 
Demetrius  Alasco  ! 

VARNEY. 
Thus  the  only  obstacle  between   ourselves 
and  fortune  is  this  woman's  life. 

ALASCO. 
And  how  dost  thou  propose  to  overcome 
that  obstacle  ? 


VARNEY. 


Remove  it. 


ALASCO  (with  a  gesture  of  dismay). 

Oho !    I  thought  that  thou  didst  love  this 
woman  ? 

VARNEY. 
She  called  me  slave  !     I  hate  her. 


(Half  drawing  his  dagger.) 

When  one  reflects  that  with  one  inch  of  this 
steel  in  that  disdainful  heart,  naught  would 
henceforth  obstruct  the  course  of  so  many 
brilliant  destinies  !   .   .   . 

(He  takes  a  step  toward  Amy.) 

ALASCO  (stopping  him). 

Varney  !  Varney  !  a  dagger-thrust  I  Every- 
one will  know  that  it  was  thou. 

VARNEY. 
Thou  'rt  right.     But  hast  thou   not — hast 
thou  not  some  eli.xir,  some  poison  of  which 
one  dies  as  soon  as  one  doth  breathe  it  ? 

ALASCO. 
Poison  !   they  'II  say  that  it  was  I. 

VARNEY. 
Then  what  are  we  to  do  ? 

ALASCO. 
Whatever  pleases  thee.     I  do  not  choose  to 
have   a  hand   in   the   affair.     A   woman !    a 
sleeping  woman ! 

VARNEY. 
Thou  'rt  a  coward  ! 

ALASCO. 
Moreover,  I  have  already  told  thee  that  my 
furnaces  await  me. 

VARNEY. 
Thou  'rt  a  fool  ! 

(He  seems  to  reflect  for  a  few  instants.) 
What  's  to  be  done  ?     What  's  to  be  done  ? 
A  natural  death?     Nothing  that  will  leave  a 
trace  of  my  handiwork? 

(Striking  his  forehead.) 
Ah  !  now  1  have  it !  Is  not  this  tower  the 
tower  of  the  dungeons?  Alasco,  in  the  floor 
of  the  narrow  corridor  that  gives  access  to 
this  dungeon  there  is  a  trap-door,  just  in  front 
of  yonder  threshold. 


ACT  V— SCENE   V 


147 


ALASCO. 
Well? 

VAKNEY. 

One  need  but  touch  a  spring,  and  the  sup- 
ports which  hold  the  trap-door  are  thrown 
aside.  It  then  remains  in  place  by  virtue  of 
the  adhering  force  of  the  surrounding  planks, 
and  there  is  nothing  whereby  the  eye  can 
detect  the  change  ;  but  the  slightest  pressure  is 
enough  to  hurl  it  down  into  the  abyss  it  covers. 

ALASCO. 
Well  ? 

VARNEY. 

'T  is  a  fearful  abyss.     The  fall  is  from  the 

summit   of  this   turret   down   to   the   lowest 

vaults  of  the  castle. 

ALASCO. 
Well? 

VARNEY. 

The  earl  has  left  the  door  ajar.     Wait  for 

me  one  moment. 

ALASCO. 

Where  goest  thou  ? 

VARNEY. 
I  go  to  press  the  spring  which  removes  the 
supports  of  the  trap-door. 

(He  goes  out  through  the  iron  door,  which  has 
remained  open,  and  half  closes  it  so  as  to  conceal 
the  corridor.) 

ALASCO  (alone). 
What   infernal   scheme   has   he   in    mind  ? 
And    my   elixirs   are   evaporating   overhead  ! 
Well,  Varney? 

VARNEY  (returning). 
'T  is  done.     Now,  woe  to  him  who  puts  his 
foot  upon  that  trap  !    though  he  were  light- 
footed  as  a  sylph,  he  would  go  down  with  it 

into  the  depths. 

ALASCO. 

Varney,  thou  dost  not   intend  to  take  the 

prisoner  and  cast  her  into  yonder  pit  ? 


VARNEY  (with  a  bitter  smile). 
Fie  !  what  brutality  !     I  shall  not  lay  hand 
upon  the  prisoner. 

ALASCO. 
In  that  case,  I  fail  to  comprehend. 

VARNEY  (lowering  his  voice). 
Didst  thou  not  hear  the  carl   promise  his 
wife  to  announce  his  return   by  a  blast  upon 
his  horn  ? 

ALASCO. 
So.     What  then  ? 

VARNEY. 

What  then  ?  When  the  captive  hears  the 
blast  upon  the  horn  thinkest  thou  that,  seeing 
yon  door  open,  she  will  have  patience  to 
wait  until  her  husband  shall  have  joined  her 
here  ?  Thinkst  thou  she  will  resist  the  pleasure 
of  embracing  him  a  few  moments  sooner? 
Thinkst  thou  that  she  will  hesitate  to  run  to 
meet  him  ?  And  if  she  doth  in  her  excite- 
ment cross  the  threshold,  if  the  rotten  sup- 
jiorts  of  the  trap-door  give  way  beneath  her, 
if  she  falls — Why,  what  can  I  do?  Shall  I 
have  been  to  blame?  'T  would  be  a  sad 
mischance. 

ALASCO. 

To  find  in  her  love  a  means  of  putting  her 
to  death !  Varney,  thou  wouldst  boil  the 
lamb  in  its  mother's  milk  ! 

VARNEY. 
Now,  let  us  withdraw.     The  earl  must  soon 
return.     Go  back,  if  thou  wilt,  to  thy  infernal 
chemistry.     I  remain   on   guard    behind    the 
masked  door. 

( They  go  out  together  through  the  secret  door. ) 


148 


AMY  ROBSART 


SCENE   VI 

AMY  (alone). 


(Profound  silence  reigns  in  the  dungeon,  which  is  but 
dimly  lighted  by  the  copper  lamp  which  Alasco  has 
left,  forgotten,  upon  the  stool.  After  some  moments 
of  silence,  the  clear  note  of  a  horn  is  heard  without. 
Amy  wakes  with  a  start. ) 

What  sound  was  that  ?    was  it  not  the  horn 

in  the  distance  ? 

(She  listens.) 

Nothing  but  the  wind  whistHng  in  the  crevices 
of  the  wall.  Perchance  't  was  that  awoke  me. 
So  much  the  better !    I  had  a  fearful  dream. 

(The  horn  is  heard  again.) 
But  no,  I  was  not  mistaken,  't  is  the  horn  in 
truth  ;  't  is  the  signal. 

(She  runs  to  the  window.) 

Torches,  horses  and  armed  men.  Yes,  there 
is  my  Dudley  !     He  dismounts,  he  assists  my 


father  to  dismount.  How  noble  he  is,  my 
Dudley  !  Ah  !  that  door  was  left  ajar ;  I  will 
rtm  to  meet  him,  and  spare  him  the  necessity 
of  coming  to  this  dungeon. 

(She  wraps  herself  in  her  Veil  and  Tcneels.) 

O  my  God,  to  thy  keeping  do  I  now  com- 
mend myself. 

(The  horn  is  heard  a  third  time.) 

Dudley,  I  am  thine  ! 

(She  takes  the  lamp  from  the  stool,  pushes  the  door 
open  and  disappears.  As  the  door  swings  back 
a  piercing  shriek  is  heard  and  a  great  noise  like  that 
made  by  the  falling  of  a  heavy  piece  of  timber.  At 
the  sound  the  little  door  is  half  opened,  and  Vamey 
appears,  pale  and  trembling.) 


ACT  V— SCENE   VII 


149 


SCENE    VII 


VARNEY  (alone). 


(He  enters  slowly  and  with  a  bewildered  air. ) 

Is  it  over?  Yes,  I  heard  the  noise.  No 
one  here.  'T  is  done.  Ah!  well, 't  is  finished  ! 
Can  it  be  that  thou  'rt  afraid,  Varney? 

(With  a  ghastly  sneering  laugh.) 

The  lamb  has  fallen  into  the  wolf's  den,  is 
that  a  reason  why  thou  shouldst  tremble  ?  If 
I  were  to  aro  and  look  ? 


( lie  n-alks  toward  the  door,  then   recoils  and  walks 
back.) 

Look — to  what  end?  I  heard,  and  that  's 
enough.  Rejoice,  Richard  Varney  !  from  this 
hour  dates  thy  fortune  ! 

( Suddenly  a  great  uproar  is  heard  behind  the  masked 
door.  It  is  thrown  violently  open,  admitting  a  flick- 
ering red  light,  and  Alasco,  pale  as  death,  rushes 
with  a  shriek  of  horror  upon  the  stage. ) 


15° 


AMY  ROBS  ART 


SCENE    VIII 

VARNEY,  ALASCO. 


ALASCO. 
Ah  me  !  woe  !  woe  ! 

VARNEY. 
Alasco  !  in  God's  name  what  's  the  matter? 

ALASCO. 
Malediction  on  us ! 

VARNEY. 
What  sayest  thou  ? 

ALASCO. 
Varney,    my  alembic    has    exploded,    the 
tower  's  half  in  ruins,  and  the  castle  on  fire  ! 

VARNEY. 
What  sayest  thou,  villain  ?    The  castle  is  on 
fire? 

ALASCO. 
Look! 

(The  glare   becomes  higher  and  brighter.     A  sound 
like  the  hissing  of  flames  can  be  heard  outside.) 

VARNEY. 
Great  God ! 

ALASCO. 
We  have  no  time  to  lose.     The  conflagra- 
tion makes  rapid  progress.     Let  us  fly  ! 


Let  us  fly ! 


VARNEY. 


( They  run  to  the  iron  door.  Alasco  pushes  it  open  and 
recoils  in  horror  before  the  yawning  gulf  outside. ) 

ALASCO. 
Demon  !  what  is  this  yawning  pit? 

VARNEY. 
The  trap ! 

ALASCO. 

A  chasm  not  to  be  crossed  !  Flight,  rescue, 
both  impossible.  On  that  side  fire,  on  this 
the  chasm.     Die  !  we  must  die  ! 

VARNEY. 
'T  is  thy  fault,  poisoner  ! 

ALASCO. 
'T  is  thine,  assassin  ! 

VARNEY  (pointing  to  the  flames). 
Who  caused  yon  fire  ? 

ALASCO  (pointing  to  the  open  trap). 

Who  opened  yon  deep  hole  ? 

(The  fire  gains  ground,  the  flame  comes  in  through  the 
masked  door,  the  roof  crumbles,  the  walls  sway  and 
tremble,  and  a  shower  of  sparks  begins  to  rain  down 
from  the  top  of  the  tower.  At  this  juncture  Flibberti- 
gibbet passes  through  an  opening  in  the  roof,  and 
appears  standing  on  the  transverse  timber. ) 


ACT  V— SCENE  IX 


LSI 


SCENE   IX 

VARNEY,  ALASCO,  FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 


Varney  ! 


FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Alasco  ! 


VARNEY  (raising  his  head). 
Who  calls  us?     Is  it  hell? 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Hell  is  content  to  await  your  coming.     Do 
not  reproach  each  other  !    I  caused  the  explo- 
sion of  the  alembic.     'T  is  I  who  punish  you. 


VARNEY. 
Ah  !  cursed  devil's  imp  ! 

FLIBBERTIGIBBET. 
Demons  of   that  sweet  angel !    follow  her 
into  the  yawning  pit.     You  will  not  follow 
her  beyond  it ! 

( He  disappears  through  an  opening  in  the  roof,  which 
falls  in  and  buries  Varney  and  Alasco.) 


152  AMY  ROBSART 


NOTE  TO  AMY   ROBSART 


Amy  Robsart  was  acted  February  13,  1S2.S,  at  the  Odeon,  under  the  management  of  M.  Sauvage. 

We  read  in  Victor  Hugo  Raconti,  etc.: 

"  It  was  agreed  that  Victor  Hugo's  name  should  not  be  pronounced ;  but  some  chance  phrase  or  some 
indiscretion  betrayed  him,  and  the  manager,  overjoyed,  lost  no  time  in  spreading  the  report  that  the  drama  was 
written  by  the  author  of  Cro/mvell.  Victor  Hugo  remonstrated  in  vain  ;  the  manager,  seeing  that  the  name 
was  a  drawing  card,  continued  to  cry  it  from  the  house-tops. 

"The  play  was  much  hissed.  M.  Victor  Hugo,  who  was  very  glad  to  give  away  a  success,  did  not 
wish  to  give  away  a  failure  ..." 

Without  actually  declaring  himself  to  be  the  autlior  of  tlie  play,  he  assumed  the  responsibility  for  the 
passages  that  were  hissed  in  the  following  letter  to  the  newspapers  ; 

"  P.^Kis,  14  February,  1828. 
"  To  the  Editor  : 

"  Since  the  success  of  Amy  Robsart,  the  first  essay  of  a  young  poet  whose  fortune  is  dearer  to  me  than  my 
own,  has  met  with  such  bitter  opposition,  I  hasten  to  declare  that  I  am  not  altogether  a  stranger  to  the  work. 
There  are,  in  the  drama,  some  passages,  some  fragments  of  scenes,  which  were  written  by  me,  and  I  ought  to 
say  that  they  are  the  passages  which  were,  perhaps,  most  loudly  hissed. 

"  I  beg  you,  monsieur,  to  publish  this  statement  in  your  journal  to-morrow,  and  to  accept,  etc., 

"  Victor  Hugo. 

"  P.  S. — The  author  has  withdrawn  the  play." 

The   play  was  a  complete  failure  and  was  performed  but  once. 


TORQUEMADA 


PART   FIRST 


FROM  MONK  TO   POPE 


AQAMaupHOT 
OWT   THAS 

V  3H332    a^^o^3^  toa 

.(sdkI  9ril  ni  ((l(xl  mari)  gniJooI)  AUAMJrjOilOT 

!  n33up  O  .baaiuDoc  i;ofl]  otl     !  gni:^  O  .bsaitna,-  .,e 

.Maauo  iiiiT 

.(abcorf  lisffj  i-ivo  rm/i  eirf  gniiloJails)   AQAMaUO^OT 

!  399ni  ■njoi(  oT 
(.'gnhsbbmlp.  .agjokarf  ^niJ  or|T     ,M,n>l  larf  no  ^IIkI  nsoup  sriT) 

!  rfioa 

(.ssand  aiil  rn,  sUkI  gniJ  sriT) 
(.<:Il3iJciI  o)  yiiiltiio'I) 

,n93rip  9r{}  stsH 
(  bnr.niUTi'l  o)  gnrlnio'l ) 

!  n99»p  bn£  gni;(  oib  „ov   !  rl/.     .naawjad  blog  1„  qs:o,l  A      ^nU  grfl  379,11  br,A 
(.bfisri  ei([  av.xfr.  )i  tsiim  htw  /.riioino  oilj  aa'iioe  all) 

•  boO  ii;o'(  bforbfl 


leen ! 


c'/.  c:.,. ,-/,., 


DRAMATIS   PERSON/E 


TORQUEMADA 

DON  SANCHO  DE  SALINAS 

DONNA  ROSA   D'ORTHEZ 

GIL,  MARQUIS  DE  FUENTEL 

KING   FERDINAND 

POPE   ALEXANDER   VI 

FRANCIS   DE   PAUL 

GUCHO,  a  clown 

THE   PRIOR 

BISHOP  OF  SEO  DE  URGEL 

MONKS,  SOLDIERS 


ACT  FIRST 

THE    IN  PACE 

Catalonia.  Among  the  mountains  on  the  frontier.  The  Lateran  monastery,  a  convent  of  the  order  of 
St.  Augustine  and  of  the  discipline  of  St.  Ruf. 

The  old  cemetery  of  the  convent.  General  appearance  of  an  uncultivated  garden.  The  time  is  April. 
Bright  sunshine  and  flowers  in  bloom.  Crosses  and  tombs  in  the  grass  and  under  the  trees.  Ground  dotted  with 
graves.  At  the  back  of  the  stage  the  monastery  wall,  very  high,  but  falling  in  ruins.  An  enormous  breach 
extends  nearly  to  the  ground,  and  gives  access  to  the  open  country.  Close  beside  a  huge  square  fragment  of  the 
wall  stands  an  iron  cross,  planted  on  a  grave. 

Another  very  high  cross,  with  the  mystic  gilded  triangle,  stands  at  the  top  of  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  and 
overlooks  the  whole  cemetery. 

In  the  foreground,  even  with  the  ground,  a  square  opening,  surrounded  by  flat  stones  on  a  level  with  the 
top  of  the  grass.  At  one  side  a  long  flagstone,  apparently  intended  to  cover  the  opening.  In  the  opening  can 
be  seen  the  topmost  steps  of  a  narrow  stone  staircase  which  leads  down  into  the  hole.  It  is  a  sepulchre,  the 
lid  of  which  has  been  removed,  disclosing  the  interior.     The  long  flagstone  is  the  lid. 

As  the  curtain  rises  the  prior  of  the  convent  in  the  garb  of  an  Augustinian  monk  is  upon  the  stage.  At  the 
back  of  the  stage  an  old  monk,  in  the  garb  of  a  Dominican,  is  walking  slowly  across,  bending  his  knee  at  each 
cross  that  he  passes.     He  disappears  and  the  prior  remains  alone. 


SCENE   I 

THE  PRIOR  OF  THE  CONVENT;   afterward,  A  MAN. 


(The  prior  is  bald,  with  a  circle  of  gray  hair  and  a 
white  beard  ;  frock  of  coarse  dark  cloth.  He  scruti- 
nizes the  wall,  and  wanders  pensively  about  among 
the  tombs. ) 

THE  PRIOR. 

Convent  in  ruins.     Brambles   and   under- 


brush.    What  havoc  time,  th'  old  renegade, 
doth  work  in  sacred  places. 

(He  examines  the  breach  in  the  wall.) 
A  breach  through  which  a  novice   might 
escape.     'T  would  seem  that  the  old  wall  is 

159 


i6o 


TORQUEMADA 


weary  from  having  stood  erect  too  long,  and 
grudges  further  service.  It  doth  our  privi- 
leges much  resemble,  for  they  are  crumbling 
too,  alas  !  They  have  their  rust,  they  have 
their  breaches.  The  sacred  branch  doth 
wither  in  our  hands.  The  popes  wax  slothful 
in  the  struggle.  Ah  !  within  our  walls  to-day 
the  princes  are  at  home ;  they  hover,  like  the 
eagle's  shadow,  threateningly  above  our  heads. 
An  end  of  discipline,  an  end  of  charters  and 
of  regulations.  Lower  we  bend  and  lower 
every  day  for  fear  of  stripes ;  we  have  no 
certainty  that  we  have  not  among  us  court 
intrigues  and  villainies.  They  force  us  to 
bring  up  their  little  highnesses  in  secret  and 
promiscuously,  both  girls  and  boys  ;  bastards, 
perchance,  who  knows?  and  we  obey. 
( He  pauses  before  the  open  tomb.) 
If  ever  any  act  of  justice  is  performed  in 
our  community,  't  is  on  one  of  ourselves. 
(He  gazes  at  the  wall.) 

Our  old  Structure  is  tottering  like  ourselves, 
and  Christ  is  bleeding,  and  we  know  that,  in 
darkness  and  in  shame,  more  and  more  help- 
lessly, we  grope  about. 

(Enters,  through  the  breach  in  the  wall,  a  man  wrapped 
in  a  cloak  with  his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes.  He 
pauses,  standing  on  the  heap  of  ruins  near  the  breach. 
The  prior  espies  him.) 

THE  PRIOR. 
Begone,  sirrah ! 


THE  MAN. 


Nay. 


THE  PRIOR. 
Away  with  you  !     Know,  clown,  that  this  is 
holy  ground. 


THE  MAN. 
Even  so  ? 

THE  PRIOR. 

A  famous  cloister. 

THE  MAN. 
Pish! 

THE  PRIOR. 

By  day,  no  one  comes  hither  save  the  monks 

alone ;    by  night,  the  shades  of  the  departed 

in  their  shrouds.     For  him  who  enters  here 

there  is  no  mercy.     The  axe  if  he  be  duke, 

the  rope  if  he  be  peasant.     None  save  they 

who  are  of   the  convent   may  come  within 

these  walls.     Beware  !   Aroynt  thee,  knave  ! 

(With  a  haughty  laugh.) 

Unless  thou  art  the  king  ! 


THE  MAN. 


I  am  he. 


THE  PRIOR. 


You,  the  king ! 


THE  MAN. 
So  am  I  called. 

THE  PRIOR. 
What  proof  have  I  thereof? 


THE  MAN. 


This. 


(He  waves  his  hand.  A  troop  of  armed  men  appears 
in  the  breach.  The  king  points  out  the  prior  to  the 
soldiers. ) 

Hang  that  man. 

(The  soldiers  pour  in  through  the  breach.  They  sur- 
round the  prior.  With  them  enter  the  Marquis  de 
Fuentel  and  Gucho.  The  marquis  is  a  gray-bearded 
man  in  a  rich  Alcantara  suit.  Gucho,  a  dwarf, 
dressed  in  black,  with  a  cap  and  bells.  He  has  a 
fool's  bauble  in  each  hand,  a  figure  of  a  man  in  gold, 
and  one  of  a  woman  in  copper.) 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


i6i 


SCENE  II 

THE   PRIOR,   THE   KING,   MARQUIS   DE   FUENTEL,  GUCHO,  THE   KING'S   ESCORT. 


THE  PRIOR  (falling  on  his  knees). 
Mercy,  raonsenor ! 

THE  KING. 

So  be  it — on  condition.     What  art  tliou  in 

this  convent? 

THE  PRIOR. 
Prior. 

THE  KING. 
Hark  ye.     Thou  'It  keep  me  posted  touch- 
ing everything  that  conies  to  pass  here.     The 
gibbet,  if  thou  liest ;   if  thou  sayest  true,  thy 
pardon. 

(He  leaves  the  prior  in  the  midst  of  the  soldiers,  and 
approaches  the  Manjuis  de  Fuentel  at  the  front  of 
the  stage.) 

Let  US  begin  by  saying  our  prayers.  Marquis. 

(He  tosses  his  cloak  to  a  servant  behind  him,  and 
appears  in  a  modest  .\lcantara  suit  with  a  huge  rosary 
at  his  side.  He  tells  his  beads  silently  for  a  few 
moments.     Then  he  turns  again  to  the  marquis.) 

The  queen  is  far  away  and  I  exist.  To  be 
alone  is  bHss.  To  be  a  widower  would  be  still 
better.     I  laugh  for  joy. 

GUCHO  ( sitting  on  the  ground  with  Iiis  two  baubles 
in  his  arms  against  the  corner  of  a  tomb.     Aside). 

The  world  doth  weep. 

THE  KING  (to  the  marquis). 

I  have  my  reasons,  thou  wilt  know  them 

soon,  for  coming  to  inspect  this  convent  close 

at  hand.     Come. 

(He  motions  to  him  to  follow  him  a  little  apart,  near 
the  tomb  against  which  Gucho  is  crouching. ) 


THE  MARQUIS. 
I  listen  to  the  king. 

GUCHO  (aside). 
I  listen  to  the  wind  which  whispers  to  me 
overhead  the  things  you  do. 

THE  KING  (to  the  marquis). 
I   wish    thy   counsel    upon    certain    secret 

matters. 

GUCHO  (aside). 

Bah  !  provided  that  I  eat  and  sleep,  why  all 
is  well. 

THE  MARQUIS  (to  the  king). 

Shall  we  send  Gucho  hence  ? 

THE  KING. 

No.      He  doth  naught  understand. 

(To  Gucho.) 
Lie  there. 

(Gucho  makes  himself  as  sm.iU  as  possible  in  the 
shadow  behind  the  king.  The  king  draws  near  tlie 
marquis.) 

Marcpiis,  I  love  women  beyond  measure. 
The  thing  that  pleases  me  in  thee  is  that  thy 
morals  are  unmentionable,  or  were.  Later, 
old  fellow,  thou  didst  turn  pious.  That  is 
well.  That  too  doth  please  me.  Man's  worth 
depends  upon  his  faith,  for  that  alone  can 
wash  away  our  sins. 

( He  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross. ) 

THE  MARQUIS. 
This  convent,  whereof  the  king  doth  pur- 
pose  to  keep   watch   upon    the   practices,  is 


1 62 


TORQUEMADA 


under  the  control  of  two  superiors,  one  at 

Cahors,  one  at  Ghent. 

THE  KING. 
Thou  art  reputed  to  have  been  a  monster  of 
intrigue.  So  art  thou  still.  'T  is  said  that 
women,  pretty  women  too,  in  former  days  did 
foolish  things  for  thee,  good  man.  That  thou 
wert  once  a  page,  a  charming  boy  ;  that  seems 
impossible,  but,  in  good  sooth,  why  so  ?  The 
morning  smiles,  and  still  the  day  is  dark ; 
that  's  often  seen.  Knowst  thou  that  there  's 
a  pretty  anecdote  concerning  a  young  court 
attendant,  said  to  have  been  thou?  Hast  thou 
ever  called  thyself  Goivona ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
No.    Wherefore  ? 

THE  KING. 
To  hide    thyself,  't   is  said,  by  craft    and 
fraud,  and  for  a  love-affair  with  a  fair  princess. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Never  ! 

THE  KING. 
I  was  told  the  whole  long  story  of  a  dull- 
witted  king  to  whom  thou  gav'st  an  heir. 
But  the  authorities  are  not  agreed  touching 
the  country.  In  all  likelihood  't  is  pure 
invention. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

Nothing  more.     You  have  made  me  a  mar- 
quis and  they  seek  to  do  me  evil  in  your  sight. 

THE  KING. 
And  they  are  right.  But  't  is  my  rule, 
whether  they  say  what  's  false  or  wliat  is  true, 
to  hold  myself  above  what  man  invents. 
Naught  reaches  me,  for  I  am  king.  Thy 
origin,  midst  lackeys,  aye,  and  clowns,  thy 
low,  base,  slippery  beginnings  suit  my  whim. 
No  one  can  say  with  certainty,  not  even  thine 
own  self,  who  was  thy  father.  I  do  admire 
thee  for  that  thou  dost  so  cunningly  hide  thy 


identity  while  living  in  the  public  eye.  The 
cormorant's  nest,  the  hole  where  lurks  the 
basilisk,  are  the  fit  starting-points  of  a  life  like 
thine,  erratic,  wandering,  enslaved.  I  have 
made  thee  count  and  marquis,  grandee  of 
Castile ;  a  mass  of  worthless  dignities,  well- 
earned  but  ill-gotten.  To  act  by  cunning,  or 
at  need  by  force,  is  easy  for  thee ;  thou 
wouldst  hold  thine  own  with  a  whole  council, 
aye,  or  turn  them  out  of  doors  e'en  though 
the  devil  were  among  them.  Thou  canst  be 
bold,  and  yet  lose  not  thy  subtlety.  Though 
made  to  crawl,  thou  dost  defy  the  tempest. 
If  need  be  thou  wouldst  risk  thy  life  for  some 
rash  stroke,  and,  old  as  thou  art,  wouldst  dravir 
thy  sword  therefor.  Thou  givest  evil  counsel, 
but  dost  not  follow  it.  It  is  thy  faculty  to  be 
of  nothing  innocent,  of  nothing  guilty,  and 
I  esteem  thee  capable  of  anything,  even  of 
loving.  'T  is  common  rumor  that  thou  didst 
rise  from  serving-man  to  bandit,  from  bandit 
to  courtier.  For  my  own  part,  I  laugh  as  I 
look  on  at  thy  manoeuvring.  It  pleases  me  to 
.see  thee  twine  thyself  about  the  serpents. 
Thy  schemes,  which  thou  dost  quietly,  and 
with  a  pensive  air,  concoct,  a  sort  of  floating 
web  that  loses  itself  in  the  darkness,  thy  wit, 
thy  talents,  thy  good  fortune,  and  the  mire 
wherein  thou  wallowest,  all  tend  to  make  of 
thee  a  creature  strange  to  contemplate,  a 
shuddering,  ungrateful  thing,  whose  services  I 
love  to  have  at  my  command. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
O  king,  the  Tagus,  the  Ebro  and  the  Gua- 
dalquivir are  yours ;  your  iVIajesty  hath  added 
Naples  to  Castile,  and  the  French  king  is  van- 
quished in  the  jousting  ;  Africa  doth  fear  my 
king,  whose  shadow  oftentimes  ere  now  hath 
met  the  sun  rising  o'er  .\lgiers  ;  Sos  was  your 
birth-place,  so  near  to  Navarre  that  you  have 
a  just  claim  upon  her,  and  I  avouch  that  you 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


163 


were  rightful  master  of  that  kingdom  while 
you  lay  sleeping  in  your  cradle,  for  never  was 
king  born  for  nothing ;  though  a  Catholic 
king,  you  have  set  foot  upon  the  church 
wherein  rei)ublican  ideas  are  taking  root;  the 
pope,  for  fear  of  thee,  doth  quake  before  the 
king,  and  his  church-bell  is  hushed  before 
your  loud  alarum.  Your  flags  wave  from 
Etna  to  the  shores  of  Hindostan,  and  with 
you  is  Gonzah'o  de  Cordova.  Moreover,  you 
win  battles  single-handed.  Young  as  you 
are,  you  tower  above  other  monarchs  like  a 
patriarch,  and  when  a  priest  would  take  an 
oar  in  any  of  your  galleys,  with  faltering 
speech  Rome  hastens  to  explain  away  its 
wrath.  O  conqueror  of  Toro,  mighty  king  ! 
All  words  seem  weak  and  paltry  in  your  pres- 
ence, and  die  upon  my  lips.  My  lord,  I  am 
devoted  to  your  interests. 

THE   KING. 
'T  is  false. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Your  Highness  .   .   . 

THE  KING. 
Spare  me  your  wearisome  chatter  of  devo- 
tion, my  dear  friend.  To  thee  I  am  a  mystery, 
to  me  thou  art  by  no  means  clear  as  glass.  I 
play  the  generous  prince  and  thou  the  saint, 
but  in  our  hearts  we  both  are  filled  with  gall 
against  each  other.  I  execrate  the  slave,  thou 
dost  detest  the  king  ;  thou  wouldst  assassinate 
me  if  thou  couldst,  and  I  mayhap  will  have 
thy  head  shorn  off  some  day.  We  are  good 
friends,  save  that. 

(The  marquis  opens  his  mouth  to  protest.) 
Waste  not  thy  words,  thou  courtier.  Thou 
hatest  me,  and  I  hate  thee.  In  my  case  't  is 
my  gloomy  nature,  in  thine  thy  wicked  aspira- 
tions. And  each  of  us  doth  keep  his  spectre 
in  his  heart. 


(The  marquis  again  makes  a  motion,  which  is  repressed 
by  the  king.) 

We  have  a  just  appreciation  each  of  the  other. 
Each  of  us  hath  a  dark  window  in  his  breast, 
through  which  we  see  each  other's  evil  hearts. 
I  laugh  to  scorn  thy  love  and  thy  devotion, 
thou  old  traitor.  Until  the  day  when  thou 
canst  no  more  gold  extract  from  me,  so  long 
as  thine  own  interest,  the  surest  of  all  bonds, 
unites  us,  marquis,  I  will  employ  thee  to  give 
counsel  to  me,  knowing  that  thou  wilt  serve 
me  better,  the  more  depraved  thou  art.  Off 
with  thy  mask  !  and  off  with  mine  !  I  like  it 
better  so.  In  very  truth,  this  insult  which  no 
man  dares  offer  me,  I,  marquis,  offer  every- 
one. Surely  I  can  no  less  than  be  outspoken, 
having  knaves  for  witnesses.  And  if  the 
prince,  whom  truth  like  a  wild  deer  doth 
shun,  hath  it  not  in  his  ear,  then  shall  he  have 
it  in  his  mouth,  and  thou  with  thy  vile  stam- 
mering tongue  shalt  witness  bear  that  I, 
the  king,  am  frank  of  speech,  and  thou,  the 
lackey,  liest.     Now  let  us  talk. 


THE   MARQUIS. 


But 


THE  KING. 
What  a  weary  burden  to  be  king  !  To  be 
a  young  man,  full  of  hasty  impulses,  of  hatred 
and  of  turbulence,  an  active,  ardent,  efferves- 
cent, mocking  creature,  with  a  whole  hurri- 
cane of  passions  in  one's  heart ;  to  be  a 
strange,  inexplicable  mixture  of  blood  and 
fire  and  powder  and  caprice,  most  like  unto 
a  sheaf  of  thunderbolts  ;  to  long  to  try  one's 
hand  at  everything,  to  seize  upon  and  pervert 
everything  ;  to  thirst  for  the  possession  of  a 
woman  ;  to  hunger  for  a  pleasure ;  never  to 
look  upon  a  maid,  a  heart,  a  tempting  prey,  a 
scene  of  wild  confusion,  without  shuddering 
with  the  fierce  need  of  biting  at  it ;  to  feel 
one's  self  from  head  to  foot  the  man  of  flesh, 


164 


TORQUEMADA 


and  without  respite,  in  the  darkness  of  a 
gorgeous  hell,  to  listen  palefaced  to  a  voice 
that  says:  "Be  thou  a  phantom!"  To  be 
not  e'en  a  king  !  God  save  the  mark  !  to  be 
a  kingdom  !  To  feel  a  ghastly  medley  of  cities 
and  of  states  replacing  one's  will,  one's 
instincts  and  desires  ;  and  towers,  walls  and 
provinces  involved  in  endless  intricacies  in 
one's  bowels  ;  to  say  as  one  looks  at  the  map : 
lo  !  that  is  I  !  Girona  is  my  heel  and  Alcala 
my  head  !  To  see  ever  increasing  in  one's 
mind,  each  day  more  base  and  despicable, 
an  appetite  that  seems  a  thirst  for  empire  ;  to 
feel  cold  rivers  flowing  over  one  ;  to  see  wide 
oceans  with  their  dreary  waste  of  waters 
isolating  one  from  all  mankind  ;  to  have  the 
sense  of  being  suffocated  'neath  a  wave  of 
flame,  and  to  look  on,  dull-eyed,  while  the 
whole  world  is  poured  as  through  a  sieve  into 
one's  heart !  And  then,  my  wife,  that  monster 
of  inflexibility !  I  am  her  slave  by  day, 
her  galley-slave  by  night.  Omnipotent  and 
melancholy,  side  by  side  we  sit,  alone  and 
friendless  in  a  ray  of  light — a  light  that  shines 
but  dimly,  't  is  so  high  above  our  heads.  We 
shiver  as  we  touch  each  other's  hands.  God 
places  on  a  barren,  tragic  eminence,  far  above 
Aragon,  Algarva,  Jaen,  Burgos,  Leon,  and 
Castile,  two  insects,  masks,  formidable  nonen- 
tities, the  king,  the  queen  ;  she  stands  for 
dread  and  I  for  terror.  Ah!  certes  it  would  be 
pleasant  to  be  king  ;  who  can  say  otherwise? 
Had  not  the  tyrant  tyranny  forever  on  his 
back  !  But  to  be  always  looking  on,  to  lead 
a  life  of  feigning,  two  effigies  of  pallor  and 
of  silence  ;  never  to  laugh  or  weep.  Urraca 
lives  in  her,  in  me  Alonzo  's  born  again.  The 
marble  man  and  the  bronze  woman  !  Prone 
in  the  dust  the  peoples  worship  us ;  while 
they  do  bless  ns  here  below,  we  feel  that 
we  're  accursed  ;  the  incense  floats  up  trem- 
blingly toward  us,  and  in  the  smoke  the  idol 


Ferdinand  and  the  idol  Isabella  are  hopelessly 
confused.  Our  twin  thrones  mingle  their  efful- 
gence, we  see  each  other  indistinctly  at  each 
other's  side,  and  when  we  speak,  the  tomb 
doth  ope  its  door.  In  sooth,  I  am  not  sure 
that  she  's  not  dead.  She  is  a  corpse  as  much 
as  she  's  a  despot,  and  I  am  like  to  freeze  her 
when  our  fingers  meet  upon  the  sce[)tre,  as  if 
God  with  a  fillet  bound  her  mummy's  hand 
to  the  hand  of  a  skeleton.  And  yet  I  am 
alive  !  This  pompous  phantom  is  not  I,  no  ! 
no !  And  so,  whene'er  I  can,  from  all  these 
grandeurs  that  do  weigh  so  heavily  upon  us  I 
escape,  I  sally  forth  from  out  my  kingly  shell, 
and,  like  the  dragon  that  doth  rear  his  head 
aloft  in  the  bright  sun,  I  feel  the  marvelous 
glow  of  the  awakening  !  Mad  as  the  cyclone, 
as  the  howling  tempest,  I,  the  gloomy  prisoner 
of  the  throne,  steal  forth,  distracted  with 
excitement  !  Freed  from  my  yoke  I  rush 
through  misery  and  happiness,  my  only  aim 
to  be  an  animal;  trampling  upon  my  royal 
cloak,  my  heart  attuned  to  vice  and  ribald 
songs  and  midnight  revelry,  and  I,  the  king, 
the  prisoner,  the  martyr,  watching  my  lust 
wax  greater,  and  my  talons  grow  ;  woman  and 
her  chastity,  the  bishop  with  his  cross  arouse 
my  anger ;  I  am  fierce,  frantic,  joyous ;  and 
the  man  whose  blood  is  boiling  in  my  veins, 
flame  mixed  with  slime,  takes  his  revenge  for 
having  been  a  ghost  by  turning  demon  I 
( Pensively. ) 

Only  to  become  a  shade  and  phantom  once 
again  to-morrow. 

(To  the  m.irquis. ) 
The  mind  of  the  colossus  is  impenetrable 
to  the  atom,  wherefore  thou  dost  not  under- 
stand how  I  display  myself  thus  shamelessly 
before  these  men  ;  but  I  do  know  that  one 
and  all,  when  I  lay  bare  my  thoughts,  tremble 
the  more,  the  more  I  play  the  cynic,  and 
't  is  my  keenest  joy,  as  I  stand  laughing  here 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


165 


amongst  them,  to  make  them  all  the  viler  by 
confessing  my  own  hideousness,  and  as  1  thus 
break  through  all  equilibrium,  all  respect  and 
all  restraint,  I,  who  was  naught  but  king,  feel 
a  free  man  !  Thou  dost  not  comprehend  me, 
and  thy  fear  grows  more  intense.  'T  is  well. 
To-morrow  when  thou  meetest  my  cold  glance 
once  more,  thou  'It  quake  with  fear,  doubting 
thy  senses,  taking  for  a  dream  the  drunken 
frenzy  in  which  I  now  am  plunged  before 
thee — a  glowing  furnace  wherein  my  past,  my 
lofty  rank,  my  sceptre  burn  and  seethe  beneath 
thine  eyes,  and  whence  1  shall  emerge  a  lump 
of  ice ! 

(He  again  takes  his  rosary  in  his  hand.) 

Now  let  us  conclude  our  prayers. 

GUCHO  (aside,  looking  askance  at  the  king). 

Go  !  pray. 

THE  KING. 

Then  will  I  question  yonder  monk. 

(He  begins  to  tell  his  beads.) 
GUCHO  (aside,  as  he  watches  him). 

What  mummery  !    To  such  an  end  will  this 

king  come.    A  merciless  impostor,  he  believes 

in   naught,    but, — such   is   the    chaos  of   his 

unenlightened  soul !  when  he  repeats  a  pater 

he  becomes  an  imbecile.    He  then  bows  down 

before  the  pope  and  looks  with  holy  awe  upon 

a  council.     Even  while  he  runs  amuck  among 

the  priests  he  fears  them  ;  he  feels   that  he  's 

but  dust  beneath  the  feet  of  yonder  haughty 

saunterer. 

(Crossing  himself.) 

So  be  it !     He  's  a  libertine,  a  liar  and  a 

cheat,  deceitful,  cruel,  obscene,  atheistic — and 

Catholic.     And,  more  's  the  pity,  in  the  years 

to  come,  he  '11  be  known  by  that  name. 

(The  king  replaces  his  rosary.it  his  belt  and  motions 
to  the  prior  to  approach. ) 

THE   KING  (to  the  prior). 
Come  hither. 


(The  prior  comes  forward  witli  his  hands  folded  across 
his  breast,  and  his  eyes  cast  down.) 

If  hai)ly  frankness  should  be  lacking  in  thy 

answers,  look  to  thyself  ! 

(The  prior  bows, ) 

Beware.     Now  tell  the  truth. 

(The  prior  bows  again.) 

(A  few  moments  earlier  the  old  monk  in  the  Domini- 
can's frock  has  reappeared  at  the  back  of  the  stage. 
He  walks  along,  with  eyes  cast  down,  heedless  of 
everything,  and  occupied  solely  in  saluting  all  the 
crosses  on  the  tombs  he  passes.  He  seems  to  be 
mumbling  prayers.  The  king's  attention  is  attracted 
by  him  and  he  points  him  out  to  the  prior. ) 

And  first  of  all,  who  is  yon  monk  with 
haggard  face,  dressed  not  as  thou  art,  who 
beads  his  knee  before  each  cross  he  passes  ? 

THE  PRIOR. 
He  is  a  madman. 

THE   KING. 
But  how  pale  he  is  ! 

THE  PRIOR. 

He  fasts  and  watches.  He  wears  his  strength 
away.  He  speaks  in  a  loud  voice  !  He  walks 
in  the  bright  sunlight  with  bare  head.  He 
raves  and  rambles  in  his  speech.  He  dreams 
of  going  to  confront  the  popes,  and  telling 
them  their  duty  on  his  knees.  We  should 
keep  silence  when  he  passes  by.  He  is  not  of 
our  order.  In  this  cloister  he  is  under  sur- 
veillance. 'T  is  customary  to  immure  thus  in 
our  convents  all  the  restless  priests,  the  learned 
men,  the  dreamers  who  might  preach  about 
the  country  doctrines  unpleasing  to  our  church 
of  Spain. 

THE   KING. 

What  form  of  madness  hath  he  ? 

THE  PRIOR. 

Visions  of  flame,  hell,  Satan.  He  hath 
been  here  but  a  short  while. 


i66 


TORQUEMADA 


THE   KING. 
He  is  quite  old. 

THE  PRIOR. 
Methinks  he  hath  not  long  to  live. 

(The  monk  passes  out  of  sight  without  noticing 
anyone. ) 

flUCHO  (aside,  contemplating  his  baubles). 
I    have   two   baubles.      One  of  gold ;  the 
other  copper.     One  is  named    Evil  and  the 
other  Good.     And  I  love  both  of  them  alike. 
I  have  no  aim  in  life. 

(He  gazes  at  the  turf  upon  the  graves.) 
Here  flowers,  there  dried  leaves. 

THE  KING  (to  the  prior). 
The  morals  of  your   convents,   monk,  are 
much  relaxed. 

THE  PRIOR. 
My  lord  .   .   . 

THE  KING. 
Women  are  often  seen  within  these  walls. 

THE  PRIOR. 
A  convent  of  the  Ursulines  is  close  at  hand ; 
they  are  the  sheep  of  our  pasture ;  we  are  .  .  . 

THE   KING. 
Goats  tending  sheep. 

THE  PRIOR   (bowing). 
My  lord  .   .   . 

GUCHO  (aside). 
Every  male  convent  acts  as  confessor  to 
the  nearest  female  convent,  commits  the  sin, 
and  then  gives  absolution  -with  paternity,  and 
holding  sway  in  its  omnipotence  over  those 
yielding  hearts,  deprives  them  of  their  virtue, 
then  restores  their  innocence.  A  pleasing 
miracle.     Secret  of  the  confessional. 

THE  PRIOR. 
O  king,   the   sons  of  Levi,  Sion's  daugh- 
ters ... 


THE  KING. 
Mate  well  together.     But  I  must  needs  be 
stern.     Be  sure  that  Rome  shall  know  of  it. 

THE   PRIOR  (bowing). 
My  lord  ... 

GUCHO  (aside). 
When  at  their  cloister  gate,  where  Jesus  no 
more  reigns,  the  little  pagan  god  Dan  Cupid 
comes  a-knocking.  Pope  Sixtus,  having  two 
daughters  by  a  strumpet,  cannot  scold  if  they 
do  set  the  gate  ajar. 

THE  KING  (to  the  prior). 
Rome  is  prepared  to  punish  and  the  times 
seem  ripe. 

(Gazing  fixedly  at  the  prior.) 
The  Bishop  of  Seo  de  Urgel  is  within  your 
walls  ;  I  have  been  so  informed. 

( The  prior  bows. ) 
And  with  full  power  to  chastise. 

THE  PRIOR  (with  a  reverence). 
In   matters  of  dogma  only,  good   my  lord, 
and  to  extenninate  or  conquer  heresies.     No 
more  than  that. 

THE  MARQUIS  (in  an  undertone  to  the  king). 
Your  eyes  are  famous  scouts. 

THE  KING  (in  an  undertone  to  the  marquis). 

I  love  to  see. 

( The  king's  eye  is  attracted  by  the  yawning  opening  in 
the  ground  a  few  feet  away.) 

What  is  this,  monk  ? 

THE  PRIOR. 

A  tomb.     An  oi)en  tomb. 


Open ! 
Yes,  king. 
For  whom  ? 


THE  KING. 
THE  PRIOR. 
THE   KING. 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


167 


THE  PRIOR. 

When  a  man  is  to  fall,  God  only  knows. 

THK   KING. 
For  whom  is  yonder  tomb  ? 

(The  prior  says  nothing.     The  king  persists.) 
Speak  instantly,  I  bid  thee ;  answer  me  ! 

THE  PRIOR. 

I  cannot  say.     It  doth  await  an  occupant. 

( After  a  pause. ) 

Perchance  it  is  for  me.     Or  e'en  for  you. 

THE  M.\RQUIS  (in  the  king's  ear). 

When  there  's  a  feeling  in  a  convent  that  a 
monk  therein  doth  rise  above  the  level  of  the 
order,  whether  in  evil  works  or  in  well-doing, 
he  is  suppressed. 

THE  KING  (in  an  undertone). 
In  sooth,  't  is  a  wise  course  to  kill  him. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Nay.     The  church  abhorreth  blood.     Sire, 
they  simply  bury  him. 


THE  KING. 


I  understand. 


THE   MARQUIS. 

This  is  a  lonely  spot.     Cry  out,  no  one  will 

hear  ;  resist,  there  are  no  passers-by. 

( Pointing  to  the  liole  wherein  one  can  see  the  begin- 
ning of  a  staircase,  and  then  to  the  flagstone  near  by. ) 

They  force  the  man  down  step  by  step,  and 
when  he  's  at  the  bottom,  then  they  set  yon 
stone  in  place  above  his  head  and  darkness 
fills  his  eyes  for  evermore  ;  his  fellow-men, 
the  woods,  the  water  and  the  wind  and  sky 
are  all  above  that  pall.     And,  living  .   .   . 

THE  KING. 
He  is  dead.     Yes,  't  is  a  simple  plan. 


THE  MARQUIS. 
He  dies  if  he  so  choose.     The  church  has 
shed  no  blood. 

(The  king  nods  approvingly.) 

THE  KING  (aloud,  looking  toward  the  garden  of  the 
cloister). 

Whate'er  this  monk  may  say  in  that  con- 
nection, women  .   .   . 

THE  PRIOR. 
Do  not  come  within  our  walls. 

THE  KING  (to  the  marquis). 

How  he  doth  lie  !     I  see  one  now  ! 

(He  gazes  into  the  garden,  and  continues.) 
And  by  her  side  a  charming  beardless  youth, 
almost  a  child,  bright-eyed  and  slender  .  .  . 

THE  PRIOR. 
King,  she  is  a  princess. 

THE  KING. 
And  the  youth  ? 

THE  PRIOR. 
A  prince,  O  king. 

THE  KING  (in  an  undertone  to  the  marquis). 

I  have  done  well  to  come. 

THE  PRIOR. 

The  statute  Magnates  .   .  . 

(Saluting  the  king. ) 

We    are     the    subjects    of    the    Viscount 

d'Orthez  .   .  . 

THE  KING. 
And  mine. 

THE  PRIOR  (resuming). 

Permits  us  to  receive  a  royal  highness. 

THE  KING. 
Two  it  seems.     A  male  and  female. 

THE  PRIOR  (bowing  in  the  direction  in  which  the 
king's  finger  is  pointing). 

A  countess  ! 


1 68 


rOROUEMADA 


THE  MARQUIS  (in  an  undertone  to  the  king). 

Like  the  King  of  France,  who  is  a  bishop 
elsewhere,  Viscount  d'Orthez,  Dax  and 
Cahors  is  at  the  same  time  clerk  and  layman, 
being  a  prince ;  and  while  he  's  always  fight- 
ing over  yonder  in  his  province,  shouting ; 
"  Forward,  my  gallant  veterans  !  forward,  my 
guards!"  he  is  a  cardinal-deacon  and  abbot 
of  this  convent. 

THE   KING  (with  a  laugh). 
A  man  of  war  in  France  and  of  the  church 
in  Spain. 

THE  MARQUIS  (pointing  off  the  stage  to  the  two 
persons  the  l;ing  has  spied). 

And  if  yon  gallant  finds  his  idol  here,  't  is 
he  who  places  these  two  hearts  beside  each 
other  midst  the  flowers  and  shade  to  carry  out 
some  project  of  his  own. 

THE  KING  (seriously). 

Some  project?     Nay.    I  see  his  aim.      A 

marriage. 

(To  the  prior. ) 

How  long  since  came  they  here  ? 

THE  PRIOR. 
When  they  were  children. 

THE  KING  (to  the  marquis). 
Then  have  they  grown  to  manhood  and  to 
womanhood    here   in    this   cloister's    stifling 

atmosphere  ? 

( To  the  prior. ) 
Tlieir  names? 

THE  PRIOR. 
The  girl  is  Rosa  d'Orthez. 

THE  KING. 
And  the  youth  ? 

THE  PRIOR. 
Don  Sancho  de  Salinas. 

(The  marquis  starts.    He  gazes  eagerly  in  the  direction 
in  which  the  king  has  espied  the  pair.) 


THE  KING  (more  seriously  than  ever). 
She  will  inherit  Orthez,  and  he,  Burgos. 

THE  PRIOR  (with  a  gesture  of  assent). 

His  rights  extend  even  to  the  Tagus. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
Sancho  de  Salinas  !     Burgos!     Can  it  be? 

THE  KING  (to  the  prior). 
Go  on.    Yes,  this  is  all  contrived  in  secret. 
This   Sancho  is  my  cousin.     But   I   thought 
that  branch  extinct. 

THE  PRIOR. 
Don  Sancho  is  kept  here  in  hiding.     He 
was  sent  hither  to  be  reared,  and  by  his  side 
was  placed  the  viscount's  niece. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
And  I  believed  they  were  all  dead.  What 
a  discovery  !  What  thought  is  this  that  comes 
into  my  mind  ?  This  child  in  hiding  here  is 
he,  beyond  a  doubt.  I  feel  my  bowels  yearn 
for  him.     This  is  most  unexpected. 

THE  KING  (to  the  marquis). 

This  sequestered  convent  is  well  chosen. 

THE  PRIOR. 
The  children  are  betrothed  and  soon  will  be 
made  man  and  wife.  They  both  descend  from 
the  same  ancestor,  a  saint  whose  name  we  here 
invoke;  his  son,  Loup  Centulle,  was  Duke  of 
Gascony ;  then  Luke,  King  of  Bigorre,  and 
John,  King  of  Bareges, Viscount  Peter,  Gascoa 

Fifth  .  .  . 

THE  KING. 
Be  brief. 

THE  PRIOR. 

The  Viscount-cardinal,  who  resigns  to-day, 
doth  order  that,  so  far  as  possible,  we  keep 
them  out  of  sight  in  this  secluded  corner  of 
the  cloister. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
Sancho  ! 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


169 


THE   KING  (pointing  to  the  young  man,  who  cannot 
be  seen  by  the  audience). 

He  is  a  comely  stripling.     Look ! 

(The  marquis  looks,  with  something  like  terror,  in  the 
direction  indicated  by  the  king. ) 

THE   PRIOR  (also  looking  in  the  same  direction). 

He  is  entitled  to  a  guard  of  fifty  hidalgoes 
commanded  by  an  abbot.  When  he  comes 
to  church  he  sits  in  the  king's  gallery,  and 
Peiiacerrada  's  his  capital.  But,  as  he  seems 
to  have  been  born  beneath  a  fatal  shadow,  no 
person  save  myself,  the  prior  of  this  monas- 
tery, knows  that  he  is  a  royal  prince  and  heir 
to  a  great  name.  He  knows  it  not  himself, 
and,  for  the  same  cause,  the  viscount's  niece, 
the  Infanta  Donna  Rosa,  doth  not  know  that 
she  's  a  princess.  The  viscount  stands  in 
dread  of  someone. 

THE   KING. 

God  !  even  so  of  me  !  the  king !  I  well 
might  be  indignant  at  this  game. 

(To  the  prior,  with  his  eyes  still  turned  in  the  same 
direction. ) 

They  wear  gowns  made  of  serge  like  yours  ? 

THE   PRIOR. 
They  both  were  consecrated  to  the  Virgin  ; 
otherwise  we  could  not  keep  them  at  the  con- 
vent.   Furthermore  they  both  have  ta'en  their 
vows  as  novices  before  the  chapter. 

THE   KING. 
He  is  almost  a  monk  and  she  almost  a  nun. 

THE   PRIOR. 
E'en  so ;  but  they  will  have  the  dispensation 
ne'er  refused  to  princes,  and  may  marry. 

THE   KING  (to  the  marquis). 
I  am  the  wolf,  I  find  my  way  into  the  fold, 
and  I  can  upset  everything. 


(Pensively,  aside.) 

But  no.  'T'aiih,  Cardinal  Orthez,  thou  dost 
do  my  work  for  me,  thou  old  gray-bearded 
devil,  who  didst  cause  these  angels  to  be 
reared  together  !  Children,  adore  each  other 
with  the  most  tender  love.  This  plot  against 
myself  I  turn  to  mine  own  ends.  Let  Rosa 
marry  Sancho  !  Aye,  that  plays  my  game. 
By  marrying  thy  niece  to  my  young  cousin, 
viscount,  it  is  thy  purpose  to  steal  Burgos 
from  me  with  Salinas.  Good  !  I  '11  give  thee 
a  free  hand.  Our  claims  are  equal,  too.  I, 
who,  like  thyself,  am  grudging  of  my  worldly 
goods,  promise  myself  to  take  Navarre  from 
thee  with  Orthez.  I  hold  thee  through  her, 
and  thou  hold'st  me  through  him.  And  so, 
this  marriage  may  take  place.  'T  is  well. 
To-day  the  marriage ;  to-morrow  the  attack. 

(Looking  into  the  garden.) 
Th'  Infanta  is  a  lovely  child. 

(Pensively.) 
The  surest  way  to  reign  triumphantly  is  to 
employ  in  one's  own  interest,  pretending  to 
be  half  asleep  the  while,  the  surreptitious  toils 
your  enemy  has  laid.  The  plot  thus  turned 
aside  enters  your  service ;  he  would  have  slain 
you  but  his  arm  doth  swerve  and  harmlessly 
slip  by  ;  the  stupid  dagger  strikes  the  very 
spot  where  you  would  have  it,  and  your  mur- 
derer becomes  your  slave. 

(Turning  toward  the  garden. ) 

What  are  they  saying  ?     Let  us  try  to  hear. 

(He  walks  toward  the  back  of  the  stage,  and  disap- 
pears among  the  trees.) 

GUCHO  (aside,  looking  after  the  king). 
Spy! 

(As  soon  as  the  king  has  left  the  stage,  the  marquis 
beckons  imperiously  to  the  prior  to  come  to  him.) 


170 


TORQUEMADA 


SCENE   III 

The  Same,  except  the  king:    THE   MARQUIS  and   THE   PRIOR  standing  togetlier,  apart  from  the  rest, 

near  the  front  of  the  stage. 


Priest ! 


THE  MARQUIS. 


THE  PRIOR  (approaching  him  submissively). 

Your  servant. 

( He  makes  a  profound  reverence. ) 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Thou  didst  not  tell  the  king  all  that  there 
is  to  tell. 

THE  PRIOR. 
God  is  the  Lord.     The  priest  may  not  dis- 
close those  things  he  learns  in  the  confessional. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Pure  fiction  !  Paul  the  Second  has  declared 
that  everything  may  be  disclosed  in  cases  of 
great  gravity.  Woe,  woe  to  thee  if  thou 
defiest  me  !  The  king  is  but  my  arm  ;  tell 
everything  to  me  ! 

THE  PRIOR. 
But  swear  that,  if  I   yield   to  you,   you  'II 
not  betray  my  confidence. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
I  swear.     Nay,  look   you.  I  '11  do   more; 
J  '11  give  thee  a  gold   hat  for  thy  madonna, 
worth  a  hundred   marks,  and  six  great  silver 
chandeliers  of  equal  value. 

THE  PRIOR. 

You  shall  know  everything. 

(Lowering  his  voice. ) 

When  you  and  I  were  young,  monsenor, 
Donna    Sancha    of    Portugal,    that     Donna 


Sancha  for  whom  we  pray  in  our  fast  days, 
wife  of  the  King  of  Burgos,  presented  him  with 
a  male  child  whom  she  had  had  by  a  young 
page,  Gorvona.  The  king,  holding  his  wife 
in  high  esteem,  believed  himself  the  father, 
and  the  bastard  enjoyed  the  rights  and  privi- 
leges of  legitimacy.  He  inherited  the  throne 
and  everything  appurtenant  thereto,  then 
married  and  then  died,  leaving  a  son,  who, 
as  was  universally  supposed,  died  suddenly 
while  very  young.  This  supposititious  death 
was  an  abduction  by  the  cardinal-viscount, 
who  caused  the  little  King  Don  Sancho  to  be 
seized  and  hid  away  in  this  fief  of  Navarre. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 

I  guessed  as  much. 

( Looking  off  the  stage  while  the  prior  is  mumbling  his 
prayers. ) 

He  is  my  child  !  the  son  of  my  own  son  !  I 
dare  not  even  yet  believe  it.  I  feel  something 
springing  into  life  within  me,  which  I  knew 
not  I  possessed — a  heart.  O  blessed  lightning 
stroke!  O  unforeseen  and  overwhelming 
shock  !  I,  who  have  done  naught  but  hate, 
now  love.  My  son  !  to  be  a  father  makes  me 
delirious  with  joy.  Now  't  is  worth  while  to 
live.  O  rapture  !  I  have  snapped  my  grind- 
ing chain  asunder.  I  have  lived  for  evil, 
henceforth  I  will  live  for  good.  My  sinful 
conscience  wandered  like  the  she-wolf.  I 
believed  that  everything  was  lost.     And  now. 


PART  1.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


171 


0  Heaven  !  I  find  it  all  again  !  I  am  a  father, 
and  a  grandfather  !  Henceforth  I  can  look 
upward  with  a  smile  to  the  pure,  radiant 
heights,  can  cast  a  furtive  glance  up  at  the 
pinnacle  whereon  that  lily,  born  of  this  vile 
clay,  will  grow  to  manhood,  and  can  say: 
"He  is  my  son  !  "    and  live  again  in  him! 

1  '11  make  the  trial.  I  feel  this  child  with  all 
his  radiant  youth  shine  through  the  mist  that 
shrouds  my  life,  and  that  his  pure  young  heart 
hath  taken  firm  possession  of  my  villainous 
old  heart,  so  that  I  now  have  to  watch  over 
me  a  store  of  innocence  within  nie,  which 
will  be  my  guide  and  counselor  ;  I  am  another 
man,  I  weep  and  I  adore,  and  see  the  sun 
arise  upon  my  darkness  !  Mine  is  that  glori- 
ous light !  mine  that  untutored  youth !  O 
God,  mysterious  and  unknown,  art  thou  in 
truth  a  clement  .God  ?  I,  who  have  guided 
this  king's  footsteps  as  he  trampled  on  his 
victims,  brightening  his  gloom  and  playing 
the  courtier  to  his  crimes,  now  feel  a  soft  hand 
lightening  the  burden  of  my  evil  deeds. 
Ah  me!  at  last  I  breathe  again,  I,  ghastly 
burden-bearer  that  I  am,  do  raise  my  head, 
filled  with  remorse,  alas !  and  look  toward 
heaven  and  breathe  its  bracing  air  I  I  am  no 
more  alone.  I  live,  I  love,  bewildered  by 
my  joy  !  Alas!  as  I  have  none  but  him,  so 
he  hath  none  but  me.  What  frightful  chasms 
yawn  before  him  !  pitfalls  w-ithout  number  I 
Aye,  but  I  watch  over  him. 

(Pensively.) 

For  him  the  light,  for  me  the  shadow.     Let 

me  remain  beneath  this  cloak,  which  veils  my 

head.     The  father  once  surmised,  the  child  is 

lost. 

(He  turns  again  to  the  prior.) 


THE  PRIOR. 
I  have  monsenor's  oath  of  secrecy. 

THE    MARQUIS. 
Be  not  alarmed.     When  is  Don  Sancho  to 
go  hence? 

THE  PRIOR. 

The  child  rci)uted  to  be  dead  is  now  a  man. 
Monsenor  the  viscount-abbot  doth  make  use 
of  him  for  his  own  purposes,  and  will  pro- 
claim him  count,  prince,  royal  highness, 
king,  when  he  hath  made  of  him  his  niece's 
husband. 

(He  casts  a  glance  behind.     The  king  reappears  at  tlie 

back  of  the  stage.) 
The  king  ! 

THE  MARQUIS. 
The  king ! 

(Aside,  speaking  to  himself.) 

Old  man,  look  well   to   it  that  thou  con- 

cealest  from  this  king  the  heart   that  hath  so 

unexpectedly    sprung    into    life   within    thy 

breast. 

THE  PRIOR. 

Protect  us,  God  forbid  that  aught  should 
anger  him  ! 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 

Come,  thou  comedian,  resume  thy  dastard's 
mask,  insensible  to  hatred,  insult  or  affront, 
and  summon  back  thy  fawning  smile  to  thy 
mendacious  brow. 

THE  PRIOR. 
Monsenor     hath     promised     most     entire 
secrecy. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 

Assuredly  I  have  ! 

('I'o  the  prior.) 
Fear  naught. 


172 


TORQUEMADA 


SCENE   IV 

The  Same:   THE   KING. 


THE  KING  (aside). 
To  peer    into  half-opened    hearts  is   most 
diverting  to  me. 

(He  looks  back  in  tlie  direction  whence  he  came.) 

Here  they  come.     Let  us  be  off. 

THE    MARQUIS. 

On    what  have   you,  their    lord  and  king, 

decided  ? 

THE  KING. 

To  make  them  happy.  I  propose  that  they 
shall  marry. 

THE   MARQUIS. 

Subtle  policy. 

THE  KING. 

Spain  step  by  step  and  stone  by  stone  is 
crumbling  away.  This  marriage  serves  my 
purposes.  'T  is  my  intent  to  lend  a  hand  to 
Cardinal  d'Orthez,  to  gratify  his  aspirations, 
and,  marquis,  I  shall  have  Dax  and  Bayonne 
ere  long. 

THE   MARQUIS  (aside.) 
Dilate,  O   my  old  savage,   gloomy    heart ! 

My  child  will  be  a  king  ! 

(At  a  sign  from  the  king  his  escort  and  all  his  retinue 
go  out  through  the  gap  in  the  wall.  The  prior 
approaches  the  king  and  bows,  his  arms  crossed  upon 
his  breast.) 

THE  KING  (to  the  prior). 

I  have  not  been  in  this  place. 

THE  PRIOR  (bowing). 
O  king  .   .   . 

THE  KING. 
And  thou  hast  never  seen  me. 


THE  PRIOR. 
Poor  and  naked  I.     The  lowly  monk  .  .  . 

THE  KING. 
Upon  this  convent  I  shall  keep  an  eye. 

THE  PRIOR. 
And  you  will  find    your  Highness's  com- 
mands obeyed. 

(Aside.) 

A  curse  upon  thee,  king  ! 

THE  KING. 
Thy  master  is  in  France. 

THE  PRIOR. 
Even  so,  your  Highness. 

THE  KING. 
But  the  Bishop  of  Seo  de  Urgel  is  your  guest. 

THE    PRIOR. 
We  have  the  honor  of  a  visit  from  a  bishop. 

THE  KING. 
He  must  know  nothing  of  all  this. 
( Don  Sancho  and  Donna  Rosa  appear  at  the  back  of 
the  stage.     They  pay   no   heed   to  what   is  taking 
place.     The  king  calls  the   marquis's   attention  to 
them  and  then  walks  toward  the  breach.) 

(To  the  marquis.) 
Come  quickly  ! 

(To  the  prior.) 

If  't  is  thy  wish  to  live,  be  silent. 

(To  the  marquis.) 


Come. 


(Exit  the  king.    Gucho  follows  him.) 


THE  MARQUIS  (gazing  at  Don  Sancho). 

How  beautiful  he  is  !    My  darling  boy  ! 

(Exit.) 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN  PACK 


^11 


SCENE  V 

D(iN  SANCUO,  DUNNA  ROSA. 


(Don  Sancho  and  Donna  Rosa,  both  in  the  garb  of 
novices,  he  with  the  white  frock,  she  with  the  white 
veil,  run  back  and  forth  and  play  among  the  trees. 
She  is  sixteen  and  he  seventeen.  They  chase  each 
other  and  play  at  hide  and  seek,  joyous  and  laughing. 
Rosa  tries  to  catch  butterflies.  Sancho  plucks  flowers. 
He  makes  up  a  nosegay  and  holds  it  in  his  hand.) 

DONNA   ROSA. 
Come  this  way.     See,  the  air  is  filled  with 
butterflies. 

DON  SANCHO. 

I  love  the  roses  quite  as  well. 

( He  gathers  some  eglantine,  adds  it  to  his  nosegay  and 
looks  about. ) 

Oh  !  I  am  wild  with  joy  to  see  so  many  lovely 
things  ! 

DONNA  ROSA  (gazing  admiringly  at  a  butterfly). 
See  this  one  flying  among  the  rushes ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
All  is  life  and  perfume  ! 

DONNA  ROSA. 
Let  us  divide  our  treasures.     For  you  the 
flowers,  for  me  the  butterflies. 

DON  SANCHO  (looking  upward). 

Something  immeasurably  sweet  and  pleasant 

is  taking  place  above  us. 

( He  plucks  flowers  for  his  nosegay  while  Donna  Rosa 
runs  after  the  butterflies.     He  gazes  at  her.) 

Rosa! 

DONNA  ROSA  (turning  and   looking  at  the  flowers 
Sancho  holds  in  his  hand). 

Senor,  for  whom  is  your  bouquet  ? 


Guess. 


DON  SANCHO. 
DONNA  ROSA. 


'T  is  for  me. 

( She  returns  to  the  butterflies  and  tries  to  catch  them. 
They  elude  her,  and  she  grows  angry.  She  speaks 
to  them. ) 

I  think  you  pretty,  and  you  fly  from  me ! 
Why  do  you  so  ? 

DON  SANCHO. 
They  lose  their  color,  Rosa,  if  thou  touchest 

them. 

(Musing,  as  he  watches  the  butterflies.) 

One  seems  to  see   sweet  kisses  wandering 
about  in  search  of  lips. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
They  find  them.     Tiiey  're  the  flowers. 

DON  SANCHO. 
Then,  Rosa,  since  you  are  a  flower  ! 

(He  takes  her  in  his  arms.    .She  struggles,  but  he  kisses 
her.) 

DONNA  ROSA. 

Sefior,  that  's  very  naughty  of  you. 

DON  SANCHO. 

But  we  're  to  be  married. 

(Donna  Rosa  looks  after  a  butterfly.     She  keeps  her 
eye  upon  it.     It  lights  upon  a  flower.) 

DONNA   ROSA. 

It  lights.     Let  's  catch  it. 

(She  steals  softly  toward  it.) 

(To  Don  Sancho.) 
Come. 


174 


TORQUEMADA 


DON  SANCHO  (following  her  very  close). 

Hush  ! 

(Don  Sancho's  lips  meet  Donna  Rosa's,  and  the  butter- 
fly flies  away.) 

DONNA    ROSA. 
Ah  !  silly  boy  !   thou  couldst  not  catch  the 
butterfly  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 

No,  but  I  caught  the  kiss. 

DONNA  ROSA   (gazing  at  the  butterflies  as  they  fly 
back  to  the  flowers). 

See  how  they  come  and  lay  their  homage 
at  their  lady's  feet !  Ah  !  now  they  fly  away, 
the  faithless  little  fellows  ! 

(She  follows  their  flight.) 

Why,  I  prithee,  do  they  fly  so  far,  so  high  ! 

what  lovely  wings  ! 

(Don  Sancho  creeps  gently  up  behind  and  kisses  her. 
She  pushes  him  away. ) 

A  kiss  before  we  're  married  !     Never  !    I'll 

not  have  it. 

DON  SANCHO. 

Then  give  it  back  to  me. 


No. 
Yes. 


DONNA  ROSA  (smiling). 
DON  SANCHO. 
DONNA  ROSA. 


But — I  do  love  thee  ! 

(They  embrace.  They  sit  down  side  by  side  upon  a 
tomb.  She  lays  her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  Both, 
as  if  in  a  trance,  dreamily  follow  the  butterflies  with 
their  eyes. ) 

DON  SANCHO. 
Oh  !  how  vast  and  sweet  is  Nature  !  Let 
me  explain  to  thee.  In  winter  the  dull  sky 
lets  fall  upon  the  earth  a  cold,  white  shroud  ; 
but,  when  comes  April  once  again,  the  flowers 
are  born,  the  days  grow  longer ;  then  the 
happy  earth  sends  back  to  the  bright  sky  which 
shelters  it,  its  flakes  of  snow  in  guise  of  snow- 
white  butterflies;  mourning  is  laid  aside  for 


festal  garb,  and  all  the  broad  expanse  of  space 
is  azure  blue,  and  joy  flies  upward  tremblingly 
to  God.  Thence  comes  this  whirl  of  wings 
from  out  the  darkness.  'Neath  the  boundless 
sky,  God  opens  hearts  innumerable,  and  fills 
them  all  with  ecstasy  and  radiance.  And 
none  says  nay  to  him  and  none  denies  him. 
For  all  he  does  is  good  ! 

DONNA  ROSA. 
Ah  well !  I  love  thee. 

DON  SANCHO  (excitedly). 
Rosa! 

(He  strains  her  to  his  breast.  A  butterfly  passes. 
Donna  Rosa  extricates  herself  from  his  embrace,  and 
runs  after  it.) 

Oil !  how  beautiful  he  is  !     Come  !   let  us 
catch  him  !     Come  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 

God  sows  the  charms  of  spring  to  charm 

thine  eyes. 

(The  butterfly  lights  upon  a  bush.) 

DONNA  ROSA  (putting  forth  her  hand  to  seize  it). 
Let  's  make  no  noise. 

(The  butterfly  flies  away.) 

How  tiresome  !     He  's  flown  away. 
(She  follows  the  butterfly.     Don  Sancho  follows  her.) 

He  '&  in  the  lily  now. 

(The  butterfly  flies  still  farther  away.) 
Good,  in  the  clematis. 

DON  SANCHO. 
Our  hearts  have  always  lived,  since  we  were 
little  children,  side  by  side.     My  wife  ! 

(The  butterfly  flies  farther  on.) 

DONNA  ROSA. 
He  sees  me  ! 

(The  butterfly  lights  upon  the  eglantine.  .She  tries  to 
catch  it  and  puts  out  her  hand,  then  quickly  draws  it 
back  again.) 

Ah  !    the    naughty    rosebush     pricked    my 
fin£;ers  ! 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


175 


DON  SANCUO. 
Those  roses !  they  would  drink  the  blood  of 
angels  ! 

(The  monk  dressed  as  a  Dominican  appears  under  the 
trees  among  the  tombs.  He  does  not  see  them,  but 
Donna  Rosa  espies  him.) 


DONNA  ROSA. 

Oh !    there  's  the  old    monk   who  acts  so 

strangely.    That  man  terrifies  me.     Let  us  go. 

(They  go  out  in  the  direction  of  the  clumps  of  trees. 
The  monk  comes  slowly  forward  as  if  oblivious  of 
everything.     Night  is  beginning  to  fall.) 


176 


TORQUEMADA 


SCENE   VI 


THE    M(JNK    (alone). 


On  one  side  the  earth,  sin-laden  home  of 
man, — princes  all  reeking  with  abominable 
crimes,  unlearned  learned  men  and  unwise 
wise  men,  lust  and  pride  and  frantic  blas- 
phemy, Sennacherib  the  murderer  and  lying 
Delilah,  heretics,  Waldenses,  Jews,  Mozara- 
bians  and  Zoroastrians,  and  pale-faced  delvers 
into  algebraic  ciphers, — all,  great  and  small 
alike,  defiling  the  baptismal  symbol,  groping 
here  and  there,  denying  Jesus,  doing  evil, — 
all,  pope,  bishop,  minister  and  king:  and,  on 
the  other  side,  the  immeasurable,  awful  flame  ! 
Here  man,  forgetting,  living,  eating,  sleep- 
ing,— there  the  awesome  depths  of  the  vast 
seething  pit  of  hell  !  O  thou  abandoned 
human  creature !  O  twofold  basis  of  our 
dreary  destiny  !  Life,  death.  To  laugh  for 
one  brief  hour  and  never  weep  !  Vision  of 
hell !  Deep  caves  and  lofty  mountain-tops ; 
live  embers  in  the  depths  and  burning  sulphur 
on  the  summits.  Crater  with  a  thousand 
mouths  !  the  yawning  outlet  of  the  fiery  gulf! 
Beneath  the  infinite  avenger,  the  poor  wretch 
doomed  to  infinite  perdition  !  Joy  is  one  half, 
mourning  the  other  half.  The  fire  luirns.  I 
hear  loud  shrieks:  "My  son!  my  mother! 
mercy  !" — and  I  see  a  vain  chimera,  hope, 
reduced  to  ashes.  Eyes  and  faces  vanish,  then 
return,  haggard  to  look  upon  in  the  deep 
chafing-dish ;  upon  the  living  skulls  the 
melted  lead  falls,  drop  by  drop.  A  spectre 
worhl.     It  tortures  and  it  suffers  torture  ;    its 


vault  is  that  which  lies  beneath  the  grewsorae 
cemeteries,  studded  with  fiery  specks  as  are 
the  heavens  at  night, — a  hideous  ceiling, 
pierced  with  graves  without  regard  to  order, 
whence  a  never-ending  shower  of  souls  pours 
into  the  abyss,  and  there  they  writhe  in  agony, 
beyond  God's  pardon,  amid  the  burning 
coals.  Darkness,  and  sobbing.  A  mournful 
wind  comes  sighing  through  the  openings  and 
fans  the  flames  that  ceaselessly  do  intertwine 
their  fiery  tongues  in  fierce  embrace ;  the 
red-hot,  gushing  lava  fills  the  hollow  porticoes  ; 
and  heaven  never  speaks  !  And  hell  speaks 
ever  I  And  everyone  who,  upon  earth, 
through  vice  or  sloth,  hath  used  his  time 
unprofitably,  hath  taken  a  false  step  in  the 
excitement  of  delirium,  hath  gone  astray, 
faltered  or  sinned,  whoever  hath,  though  for 
an  instant  only,  wavered  in  well-doing,  is 
there  !  Nemesis  !  Fathomless  abyss  !  To  doubt 
it  is  impossible.  What  have  we  here  before 
our  eyes?  Hell  visible.  Its  pestilential  breath 
assails  our  nostrils.  Belial's  hearthstone  rears 
aloft  its  ghastly  chimney,  with  its  acrid,  ruddy 
vapors  of  the  vat,  into  our  atmosphere. 
Vesuvius.  Cheerless  Stromboli.  And  vEtna. 
Hecla  in  the  north.  If  not  of  this,  of  what 
is  one  to  think  ?  We  have  this  mystery  con- 
fronting us,  yawning  beneath  our  feet,  and 
spitting  flame  and  death  and  darkness.  We 
may  lean  over  if  we  will  and  look  within.  At 
night  we  can  espy  the  damned,  the  burning. 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


177 


rolling  about  in  vortices  like  showers  of  sparks, 
flying  and  falling  back,  their  wings  scorched 
by  the  flames.  Alas !  no  means  of  exit,  no 
escape.  Return,  liack  to  your  dungeons 
walled  with  red-hot  coals.  Once  more  become 
the  billows  of  the  horrible  chaotic  sea  of 
flame.  Above  you  Satan  laughs,  monster  of 
infamy  !  They  writhe  and  scpiirm,  fearful  to 
look  upon,  gnawed  at  on  every  side,  live 
brands,  a  ghastly  mass  of  flame  and  smoke, 
scattered  throughout  the  cheerless  vast  ex- 
panse. The  fiery  serpents  lick  their  shape- 
less hands;  the  oil  doth  eat  them,  the  lead 
drinks  their  blood,  the  boiling  pitch  dissolves 
their  flesh ;  their  eyes  are  absolutely  and 
forever  blind ;  and  in  their  endless  raving, 
through  all  the  gaping  holes  that  make  their 
bodies  veritable  sieves,  are  heard  but  these 
two  awe-inspiring  words:  "Never!  For- 
ever !  "  My  God  !  who  will  have  pity?  I  ! 
I  come  to  save  mankind.  Aye,  amnestied 
mankind  ;  the  idea  fills  my  soul.  Within  me 
love  sublime  is  crying  to  be  heard,  and  I  will 
set  abyss  against  abyss.  Dominic  conceived 
the  plan,  and  I  will  execute  it.  Hell !  How 
to  hurl  down  that  lid  of  iron  ?  How,  O 
Rome,  O  Jesus,  on  that  awful  slope  to  stay 
the  fall  of  man  ?  I  have  found  the  way. 
Indeed  Saint  Paul  did  point  it  out.  The 
eagle — therein  lies  his  proud  enjoyment  of 
his  lofty  flight — sees  everything  ;  his  eyes  are 
dazzled  by  the  things  that  he  describes.  What 
must  we  have  that  hell's  gates  may  be  closed, 
and  heaven's  open  thrown?  The  stake.  Hell 
must  be  cauterized  ;  eternity  be  won  by  tell- 
ing means.  One  gleam  of  pain  annuls  innu- 
merable torments.  The  burning  earth  will 
quench  the  sombre  fires  of  hell.  Hell  for 
one  hour  on  earth  destroys  the  power  of  an 
everlasting  conflagration.  Sin  is  consumed 
with  the  vile  carnal  rag,  and  from  the  flame 
the  soul  emerges,  pure  and  radiant,  for  water 


laves  the  body,  fire  the  soul.  The  body  is 
but  dust,  the  soul  is  light;  and  fire,  which 
follows  the  celestial  chariot  and  twines  its  arms 
around  the  axle-tree,  alone  can  purify  the  soul, 
being  of  the  same  essence  as  itself.  To  thee 
I  '11  sacrifice  the  body,  O  immortal  soul ! 
What  father  would  an  instant  hesitate?  What 
mother  seeing  her  poor  child  suspended  'twixt 
the  consecrated  jjyre  and  the  awful  flames  of 
hell,  would  not  accept  the  exchange  that  doth 
exterminate  a  demon,  recreate  an  angel? 
Yes,  that  is  the  true  meaning  of  the  word 
Redemption.  Immortal  Zion,  deathless 
Gomorrha,  no  one  can  transfer  one  ray  of  joy 
from  her  who  shines  refulgent  in  the  heavens 
to  her  who  burns  in  hell ;  but  God  permits  us 
to  redeem  the  future  !  No  more  legions  of 
the  damned  !  the  torch  divine  comes  forth  to 
bless.  But  time  is  short  !  Alas  !  the  evil  in 
the  world  grows  worse ;  a  second  time  the 
bleeding  Christ  is  dying ;  all  is  wickedness 
and  crime,  and  everything  is  crumbling  to 
ruin.  From  hour  to  hour  the  deadly  tree  of 
sin  puts  forth  a  branch,  which  God  draws 
upward  to  himself,  but  Eve,  alas !  doth  bend 
it  till  it  reach  the  lips  of  man  !  Faith  is  no 
more  !  Backsliding  Jews,  monks  faithless  to 
their  vows,  Franciscan  mendicants,  nuns  who 
allow  their  hair  to  grow — this  one  tears  down 
a  cross,  that  one  defiles  the  host.  Faith  dies, 
by  error  strangled,  as  the  lily  by  the  nettle. 
The  pope  is  on  his  knees.  To  whom  ?  To 
God?  Not  so.  To  man.  He  bends  the 
knee  to  Cjssar.  Rome,  ere  long,  subject  to 
earthly  kings,  will  be  the  handmaiden  of 
Nineveh.  One  step  more  and  the  world  is 
lost.  But  I  have  come  and  here  am  I.  I 
bring  with  me  a  fervent  faith.  With  thought- 
ful brow  I  come,  to  fan  the  saving  fire  of  the 
stake.  O  earth,  I  come  to  redeem  the  human 
soul  by  human  flesh.  I  bring  salvation  and 
the  healing  balm.     Glory  to  God  !   to  all  men 


178 


TORQUEMADA 


joy !  The  heart,  the  hard  and  stony  heart 
will  melt.  I  will  encompass  the  whole  world 
with  funeral  pyres,  my  lips  will  utter  the  deep 
cry  of  Genesis:  "Let  there  be  light !  "  and 
straight  the  blazing  furnace  will  shine  forth ! 
I  will  sow  flames  and  firebrands  and  burning 
coals,  and  gleams  of  light,  and  everywhere, 
above  earth's  greatest  cities,  I  will  kindle  the 
supreme  auto-da-fe,  celestial,  joyous,  living  ! 
O  mankind,  I  love  thee  ! 

(He  raises  his  eyes  heavenward,  with  clasped  hands 
and  lips  parted,  in  an  ecstasy  of  contemplation. 
Behind  him,  from  the  outskirts  of  a  sort  of  thicket 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  cemetery,  emerges  a  monk, 
■with  his  arms  crossed  upon  his  breast  and  his  hood 
pulled  down  over  his  face.     Then  from  another  part 


of  the  thicket,  another  monk,  and  then  another. 
These  monks,  who  wear  the  typical  garb  of  Augus- 
tinians,  take  their  places  in  silence  some  little  dis- 
tance behind  the  Dominican,  who  does  not  see  them. 
Other  monks  come  forth  one  after  another  in  the 
same  way,  in  silence,  and  take  their  places  beside  the 
first  comers.  AH  have  their  arms  crossed  upon  their 
breasts,  and  their  hoods  lowered.  No  face  can  be 
seen.  In  a  short  time  a  semicircle  is  formed  behind 
the  Dominican.  The  semicircle  parts  in  the  middle, 
and  a  bishop  between  two  archdeacons  comes  out 
from  behind  the  trees,  with  his  cope  over  his  shoulders, 
crozier  in  hand  and  mitre  on  his  head.  It  is  the 
Bishop  of  Seo  de  Urgel.  He  walks  slowly  forward 
followed  by  the  prior,  who,  alone  of  all  the  monks, 
has  his  hood  raised.  The  bishop,  without  speaking, 
takes  his  stand  in  the  centre  of  the  semicircle  of 
monks,  which  closes  behind  him.  The  Dominican 
has  seen  nothing  of  what  has  taken  place.  It  grows 
darker  and  darker.) 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


179 


SCENE   VII 

THE   DOMINICAN,  THE   BISHOP  OF  SEO  DE  URGEL,  THE  PRIOR,  MONKS. 


THE  BISHOP. 
Be  ye  my  witnesses  that  I,  John,  Bishop  of 
Sec  de  Urgel,  am  now  about  to  sit  in  judg- 
ment on  this  man  before  us,  good  or  bad  be 
he,  and  first  of  all  to  question  him ;  for  the 
law  gives  us  license  to  chastise,  but  orders 
that  we  first  give  warning  to  the  culprit. 

(The  monk  has  turned  about.  He  gravely  looks  from 
one  to  another  of  the  assemblage.  He  does  not 
seem  to  be  disturbed.     He  looks  at  the  bishop.) 

Who  art  thou  ? 

THE  MONK. 

A  friar  of  the  order  of  Dominic. 


Thy  name  ? 


THE  BISHOP. 


THE  MONK. 


Torquemada. 

THE  BISHOP. 

'T  is  said  that  in  thy  infancy  the  devil  did 
possess  thee,  and  that  thou  art  beset  by  visions 
of  disaster.     Is  it  true  ? 

THE  MONK. 
Before  my  eyes  the  real  presence  becomes 

a  living  truth. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Moonshine  ! 

THE  MONK. 

Content  yourself  with  saying  't  is  a  vision. 

I  see  God. 

(Fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  mystic  golden  triangle  at 
the  top  of  the  tall  cross. ) 

O  Lord,  what   wouldst  thou  that  we  priests 
should  do  in  face  of  thy  eternal   radiance? 


To  see  the  law,  simple  and  awe-inspiring,  and 
to  see  naught  beside,  is  terrible  to  think  upon. 
But  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

THE  BISHOP. 
'T  is  said — do  you  make  answer — that  in 
thy  view  we  learned  doctors  err  in  that  we  do 
abhor    the   impious   man    as   we  abhor   wild 
beasts. 

THE  MONK. 
In  truth,  lord  bishop,  you  do  err  therein. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Earthworm  ! 

THE  MONK. 

The  impious  man  we  needs  must  love  and 

save. 

THE  BISHOP. 

'T  is  said  that  thou  art  lured  by  a  false 
dogma  that  led  the  Lombard  Didier  astray, 
and  that,  according  to  thy  dreams  or  thy  false 
principles,  hell's  fire  is  scattered  and  extin- 
guished by  the  stake  ;  so  that  the  flame  sends 
dead  men's  souls  to  heaven,  and  that  to  save 
the  soul  the  body  must  be  burned. 

THE  MONK. 
Such  is  the  truth. 

THE  BISHOP. 

A  grievous  error  doth   possess   thy  mind. 

Sin,  that   pernicious  tree,  hath  error  for  its 

root. 

THE  MONK. 

The  soul   loathes  contact  with   the  body, 

wretched  man.     To  burn,  that  is  to  purify. 


i8o 


TORQUEMADA 


THE  BISHOP. 

A  frightful  doctrine. 

THE  MONK. 
THE  BISHOP. 


Nay. 
And  false. 


THE  MONK. 
'T  is  true.     And  I  propose  to  make  my  acts 
conform  thereto. 


Viper ! 

I  so  believe. 


THE  BISHOP. 
THE  MONK. 


THE  BISHOP. 

If   thou  dost   not   retract,   beware  !     I  do 

enjoin  thee  to  repent,  and  to  renounce  thy 

false  belief. 

THE  MONK. 

Humble  I  am,  nor  can  I  lie,  and  I  will  not 

.  retract. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Perversity  ! 

THE  MONK. 

The  Council  of  the  Lateran  is  on  my  side, 
and  Innocent  the  Third. 

THE  BISHOP. 
If  thou  art  docile,  thou  mayest  claim  what- 
e'er  thou  wilt,  but,  as  a  rebel,  naught.  Thine 
error  may  give  forth  a  baleful  light,  my  son, 
a  schism  may  result  therefrom.  So  beat  thy 
breast  and  say  :   "I  am  at  fault." 

THE  MONK. 
Nay,  I  am  right. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Renounce  thy  doctrine.     Bruno  of  Angers, 
seeking  to  be  great,  repented. 

THE  MONK. 
I  seek  not  to  be  great,  but  to  remain  the 
humble  creature  that  I  am. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Proud  man  ! 


THE  MONK. 
Nay,  but  a  true  believer. 

THE  BISHOP. 
What  is  thy  purpose  ? 

THE  MONK. 
I  shall   go  to   Rome,  barefooted,  to   give 
warning  to  the  Holy  Father. 

THE  BISHOP. 
He  it  was  who  ordered  me  to  try  thee,  dog ! 

THE  MONK. 
The  barking  of  the  dog  awakes  the  shep- 
herd.    I  will  awake  the  pope.     He  can  but 
listen  to  me. 

THE   BISHOP   (to  tlie  monks,  pointing  to  the 
Dominican). 

This  man,  my  sons,  is  fierce  as  any  tiger. 

THE  MONK. 
Aye,  because   his   heart  is   tender.     What 
says  Saint  Paul?     "  Faith  burns  by  charity." 

THE  BISHOP. 
Thou  dost  pervert  the  meaning  of  a  text 
inopportunely  quoted.  Pope  Sixtus  Fourth,  a 
pope  whom  the  whole  world  reveres,  would 
have  the  altar  less  inexorable  and  the  faith 
less  stern.  Indulgence  is  in  him  akin  to 
sanctity.  It  is  his  purpose  to  arm  truth  with 
gentleness.  The  inquisition  tends  to  milder 
methods.  When  the  pope  doth  raise  his 
hand,  it  is  to  bless  far  more  than  to  chastise. 
One  rarely  sees  to-day  a  smoking  pyre. 

THE  MONK. 
I  am  appalled  by  such  misrule.     The  flames 
of  hell  wax   fiercer  and   soar  higher  as   the 
flames  sink  around  the  stake. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Poor  darkened  soul !     What  is  thy  purpose, 
pray? 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


i8i 


THE  MONK. 
I 

To  save  the  world. 

THE  BISHOP. 


And  how? 


THE  MONK. 


By  fire. 

THE  BISHOP. 

Beware  that  ill-timed  remedy. 

THE  MONK. 
The  doctor  's  not  the  master  of  the  remedy. 

THE  BISHOP. 
But  tell  me,  pray,  what  thou  hopest  ? 

THE  MONK. 
To  triumph  with  God's  help. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Ah  !  we  shall  see. 

(He  points  to  the  opening  in  the  ground.) 

Go  in. 

THE  MONK. 

What  is  this  cave  ? 


The  tomb. 


'T  is  well. 


THE  BISHOP. 


THE  MONK. 


(He  walks  toward  the  hole.) 

THE  BISHOP. 
Stay.     Still  there  is  time. 

THE  MONK  (walking  toward  the  hole). 

Introlbo. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Reflect. 

THE  MONK  (with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  sky). 
O  God,  smite  thou  thy  priest  and  prophet, 
and  may  thy  blessed  will  be  done. 

(He  pauses  on  the  brink  of  the  opening.) 

THE  BISHOP. 
Thou  owest  obedience  to  thy  bishop.     A 
head  that  holds  itself  erect  within  the  cloister 
walls  is  an  affront.     The  church  is  bound  in 


duty  to  consign  the  man  who  doth  disturb  her 
peace  to  everlasting  night. 

THE  MONK  (standing  on  the  brink  of  the  opening). 

Amen. 

THE  BISHOP. 

Obey.     I  call  upon  thee  to  obey. 

THE  MONK. 
I  will  not. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Descend  one  step. 

(The  monk  puts  his  foot  into  the  opening  and  descends 
the  first  step.) 

In  the  name  of  Christ,  recant. 

THE  MONK. 
I  will  not. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Down. 

(The  monk  descends  the  second  step. ) 
Abjure. 

THE  MONK. 
I  will  not. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Down. 

(The  monk  descends  the  third  step.) 
I  am  thy  bishop  and  thy  judge.     Retract 
thy  false  and  barbarous  doctrine. 

THE  MONK. 
'T  is  the  true  doctrine. 


THE  BISHOP. 


Yield  to  me. 


THE  MONK. 


I  will  not. 


Down. 


THE  BISHOP. 


(The  monk  descends.  His  body  from  his  waist  down 
is  hidden.  The  bishop  steps  toward  him  and  draws 
near  the  opening.  He  calls  the  monk's  attention  to 
the  contents  of  the  tomb. ) 

Thou  seest  yon  jug  of  water  and  yon  loaf 
of  barley  bread.  The  curtain  between  thee  and 
the  bright  light  of  day  is  to  be  drawn  forever. 


l82 


TORQUEMADA 


Everything,  the  stars,   the  dawn,  will  vanish 
from  thy  sight. 

THE  MONK. 
So  be  it. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Down. 

(The   monk  descends.     Only   bis  head   is  above    the 
ground.) 

Think  once  again.    Herein  thy  life,  without 

a  breath   of   air,  will    go   out    like   a  torch. 

Hunger  and  thirst.     'T  is  horrible  to  die. 

THE  MONK. 
'T  is  beautiful. 

THE  BISHOP. 
Down. 

(The  monk  disappears  in  the  hole.) 

THE  MONK'S  VOICE. 

I  am  at  the  bottom. 

THE  BISHOP. 

Put  the  stone  in  place  above  him. 

THE   MONK'S  VOICE. 
Do  so. 

(At  a  sign  from  the  bishop  two  monks  push  the  flag- 
stone over  the  opening.  Just  before  it  is  entirely  closed 
they  pause,  leaving  a  narrow  aperture.  The  bishop 
leans  over  the  aperture. ) 

THE  BISHOP. 
By  Jesus  Christ !  by  Saint  Peter's  ring  !     A 
moment  hence  't  will  be  too  late.     Darkness 
awaits  thee.     Dost  tliou  not  retract  ? 


THE  MONK'S  VOICE. 


No. 


THE  BISHOP. 
Thou  hast  but  a  moment  more.    Renounce 
thy  mad  and  headstrong  fallacies.    Recant. 


THE  MONK'S  VOICE. 


I  will  not. 


THE  BISHOP. 


Then  go  in  peace  ! 

(The  two  monks  push  the  flagstone  in  place,  and  the 
sepulchre  is  closed.) 

My  brethren,  let  us  pray. 

(The  monks  all  clasp  their  hands.  They  form  in  pro- 
cession, two  by  two,  and  march  slowly  off' the  stage, 
the  bishop  bringing  up  the  rear.  They  disappear 
among  the  trees.  They  can  be  heard  chanting 
prayers  for  the  dead.  Their  voices  grow  fainter  and 
fainter. ) 

VOICES  OF  THE  MONKS  (in  the  distance). 
De  profiindis  ad  te  clamavi  Domine. 

THE  VOICE  (in  the  tomb). 

Have  pity.  Lord,  upon  this  wretched  world  ! 

VOICES  OF  THE   MONKS. 
Libera  nos. 

THE  VOICE  (in  the  tomb). 
My  God,  deliver  me  ! 

(Enter  Don  Sancho  and  Donna  Rosa.) 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


183 


SCENE    VIII 

THE  MONK  in  the  tomb,  DON  SANCHO,  DONNA  ROSA. 


(Don  Sancho  and  Donna  Rosa  come  out  from  the 
thicket,  and  stop  under  the  last  trees.  They  look  at 
each  other  and  at  the  solitude  about  them.  A 
momentary  silence.     It  is  almost  dark.) 

DON  SANCHO. 
Our  hearts  are  one,  for  we  have  loved  since 
we  were  children,  and  my  hand  seeks  thine  ; 
I  cannot  say  if  I  do  draw  thee  after  me,  or  if 
I  follow  thee.  Rosa,  our  lives  are  wrapped  in 
mystery.  Sometimes  I  dream  about  it.  Here, 
in  this  convent,  we  have  been  brought  up 
together.  Knowest  thou  who  we  are  ?  Why 
are  we  thus  confined?  But  I  care  not,  so 
long  as  I  may  love  thee.  I  am  the  knight  and 
thou  the  lady.  Why  I  speak  to  thee  about  my 
heart,  I  cannot  say  ;  my  heart  's  thy  breath, 
the  fiery  breath  of  heaven  ;  it  issues  from  thy 
mouth  and  glistens  in  thine  eyes.  I  have  no 
heart  when  thou  'rt  not  by  my  side.  Thy  veil 
is  in  the  way.     A  kiss. 


DONNA  ROSA. 


No. 


(She  lets  him  take  it,  then  leans  on  his  arm  and  points 
to  the  sky.) 
See  that  star. 

(They  both  gaze  at  the  sky  in  rapture. ) 

THE  VOICE  (in  the  tomb). 

O  Lord  !  have  mercy  on  this  earth  ! 

VOICES  OF  THE  MONKS  (in  the  distance). 
Ite,  pax  sepulcris .' 

THE  VOICE  (in  the  tomb). 
Mercy  ! 


DONNA  ROSA. 
Hearest  thou  singing  ? 

DON  SANCHO. 
No,  but  I  hear  cries. 

VOICES  OF  THE  MONKS. 
(They  grow  fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance.) 
Onus  grave  super  caput. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
Hark,    they   are   singing.     Night   is   more 
solemn  with  voices  singing  in  the  darkness. 
The  chant  is  the  joy-offering  to  Heaven  above. 
All  earthly  creatures  love.     Let  us  love. 

VOICES  OF  THE   MONKS. 
Miserere  ! 

THE  VOICE  (in  the  tomb). 
Miserere  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
No.    'T  is  a  cry.     Some  one  is  calling.     I 
was  right.    Whence  comes  the  cry  ? 

DONNA  ROS.^. 

'T  is  from  the  chapel.     'T  is  the  evening 

hymn. 

DON  SANCHO. 
Not  so. 

DONNA  ROSA. 

The  darkness  and  the  evening  mist  deceive 

one. 

THE  VOICE  (in  the  tomb). 

Jesus  ! 


1 84 


TORQUEMADA 


DON    SANCHO    (spying    the  stone  that  covers  the 
tomb). 

'T  is  there! 

DONNA  ROSA. 
I  am  afraid. 

DON  SANCHO. 
Some  one  is  underneath  ! 

DONNA  ROSA. 
A  dead  man  speaks  ! 

THE  VOICE  (in  the  tomb). 
O  God  !  O  Father  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
'Neath  that  stone  a  living  man  is  buried. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
Go  not  near.     A  ghost,  a  ghastly  face,  a 
dead  man  will  come  up,  I  tell  you  ! 

DON  SANCHO  (ahnost  roughly). 
Help  me  ! 

(He  kneels  and  tries  to  move  the  stone.  She  kneels 
beside  Iiim  and  also  tries  to  raise  it.  He  tmiis  to  her 
with  a  smile.) 

If  't  is    some   poor  wretch  condemned  to 
die,  let  him  receive  his  pardon  at  thy  hands  ! 

( He  leans  over  the  stone. ) 

Is  't  here  that  some  one  speaks  ? 

THE  VOICE  (in  the  tomb). 
Is  some  one  passing  ?    Help  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
Patience. 

(They  unite  in  an  effort  to  raise  the  flagstone.) 

Nothing  we  do  will  swerve  or  move  this 

stone.     Oh  !    for  a  crow-bar  ! 

(He   spies   the    iron    cross  on  a  tomb   near   the    wall 
close  by.) 

Ah  !  that  cross  ! 

( He  rises  and  walks  toward  the  cross.) 


DONNA  ROSA  (detaining  him). 
Beware  ! 

DON  SANCHO  (gazing  at  the  tomb). 
Poor  man ! 

DONNA  ROSA. 
I  fear  to  see  thee  touch  that  cross,  a  holy 
thing. 

DON  SANCHO. 
'T  will  be  more  holy  having  saved  a  life. 
I  take  it  down  and  Jesus  smiles  approvingly 

upon  me. 

(He  uproots  the  iron  cross.) 

DONNA  ROSA  (crossing  herself). 
O  crux,  ave  / 

DON  SANCHO  (examining  the  cross  in  his  hands). 

A  solid  iron  bar.     Now,  for  a  stone. 

( He  rolls  a  block  of  stone  close  up  to  the  tomb  and 
uses  it  for  a  fulcrum  for  his  crow-bar.  He  inserts  the 
end  of  the  shaft  of  the  cross  under  the  stone,  and 
both  together  seek  to  pry  it  up. ) 

Ah  !  death  is  loth  to  have  his  eyes  reopened. 
'T  is  a  hard  task. 

(They  pause  to  take  breath.) 

A  convent  's  a  strange  place.     Dark  deeds 
are  sometimes  done  in  convents. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
God  !     I  tremble. 

DON    SANCHO    (bearing    his    weight    upon    the 
crow-bar). 

'T  is  a  very  heavy  stone. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
It  yields.     It  moves  aside. 

(The  stone  begins  to  move.) 

DON  SANCHO. 
Once  more.     Help  me  a  little. 

(Rosa  presses  down  upon  the  crow-bar.    Sancho  pushes 
the  stone.     The  tomb  is  opened. ) 


PART  I.     ACT  I— THE   IN   PACE 


185 


DONNA  ROSA  (clapping  her  hands). 
Good! 

DON  SANCHO  (peering  into  the  dark  hole). 

Oh  !   what  a  fearful  cave,  filled  with  dense 

vapor ! 

(The  monk  slowly   emerges   from  the  opening.     He 
looks  intently  at  Don  Sancho  and  Donna  Rosa.) 


DONNA  ROSA. 
A  living  man  !     Why  't  is  that  same  old 
monk  !     How   fortunate  that  we  were  by  to 
hear ! 

THE  MONK. 
You  saved  my  life.     I  swear,  my  children, 
to  repay  you. 


ACT  SECOND 

THE    THREE    PRIESTS 

Italy. 

The  summit  of  a  mountain.     A  hermit's  cave.     In  the  background  the  entrance,  looking  out  into  space. 

On  the  ground,  in  a  corner,  a  straw  pallet.  In  the  opposite  corner  a  low  altar,  whereon  is  a  human  skull. 
In  a  hollow  in  the  rocky  wall  is  a  jug  of  water,  some  black  bread  and  a  wooden  plate  on  which  are  apples  and 
chestnuts.     Stones  for  seats  and  a  larger  one  for  a  table. 

Horizon  of  forests,  mountain-sides  intersected  by  ravines,  and  precipices.  In  the  distance  a  mountain 
torrent.     In  the  mist  the  bell-tower  of  a  monastery. 


SCENE   I 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL  (alone). 


(He  is  on  his  knees  praying.  He  breaks  off  and  rises. 
He  listens.  Without,  a  medley  of  horns  and  trumpets 
and  barking  dogs  is  heard.) 

What  do  I  hear?     I  must  mistake.     It  is 
the  bell. 

(He  listens.) 

No,  't   is   the  horn.     The   horn   resounding 
from  rock  to  rock  ! 

(He  listens.) 
Sometimes  the   torrent  seems  a  multitude  of 
voices,  broken  by  the  wind  and  mingled  with 
the  noises  of  the  woods. 


(He  listens.) 
No.    'T  is  the  hunt. 

(He  looks  without.) 

Before  the  hunting  pack,  the  blare  of  trumpets 

and   the  tally-ho,  the  mystery-haunted  wood 

takes  fright,  and  man  becomes  a  demon  to 

the  hunted  beast. 

(He  listens.    The  sound  of  the  hunt  becomes  more 
and  more  distinct. ) 

'T  is  a  burning   shame  !     Since   Simon  and 

Dorothea,  the  hermit  with  the  wolf  hath  shared 

187 


1 88 


TORQUEMADA 


his  den  in  this  blessed  solitude,  the  Holy 
Father's  consecrate  demesne;  beneath  the 
brotherhood  of  the  thick  branches,  love  doth 
reign,  and  man  and  nature  are  at  peace.  No 
mortal,  be  he  prince  or  king,  hath  right,  this 
cloud-capped  mountain  being  subject  to  the 
Roman  tiara,  to  bring  dogs,  horns  and  loud 
outcries  to  this  primeval  forest. 

(The  barking  recedes.     The  noise  of  the  hunt  goes 
and  comes,  ceases  and  begins  anew. ) 


The  pope  alone  might  do  it.  Nor  can  he, 
for  he  hunts  naught  but  souls.  No,  even  the 
most  infamous  of  sacrilegists  would  not  come 
to  shed  blood  in  this  holy  place,  and  terrify 
the  birds  of  heaven,  who  are  God's.  And  yet 
some  one  doth  venture ;  who  is  this  rash  mortal  ? 

(An  aged  monk,  staff  in  hand,  his  feet  covered  with 
dust,  appears  at  the  entrance  of  the  cave.  He 
wears  the  cape  of  a  pilgrim  over  his  Dominican's 
frock.  It  is  Torquemada.  He  stops  in  the  entrance. 
His  beard  is  gray,  Francis  de  Paul's  white.) 


PART  I.     ACT  II— THE    THREE  PRIESTS 


189 


SCENE    II 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL,  TORQUEMADA. 


TORQUEMADA. 
Hail  to  thee,  old  man  and  father ! 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
Brother,  hail. 

TORQUEMADA. 
Dost  thou  permit  me  to  abide  a  moment 
here  for  rest  ? 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
Enter,  my  brother. 

TORQUEMADA. 
I  am  scorched  and  chilled  ;  the  fever  and 
the  burning  sun  devour  me ;  I  journey,  and  I 
come,  an  humble  passer-by,  beneath  thy  roof, 
O  holy  patriarch,  I  am  o'erspent.  I  say: 
Lama  Sabacthani  !  Hail !  Blessed  be  tliou, 
O  priest. 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
My  blessing  on  you,  friend. 

TORQUEMADA. 
I,  also,  am  a  priest. 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
And  may  God  guide  your  steps !  'T  is 
well.  It  is  your  right  to  say  or  not  to  say 
whence  you  have  come  and  whither  you  are 
going,  for  all  steps  come  from  the  dawn,  and 
all  are  going  on  to  death.  What  you  are, 
stranger,  that  we  also  are.  My  son,  the 
infinite  doth  weigh  alike  on  all  mankind,  and 
the  same  journey  is  by  every  mortal  taken. 
Our  feet  are  in  the  tomb,  our  knees  are  at  the 
altar. 


TORQUEMADA. 
I  come  from  the  whole  Universe,  I  go  to 
the  one  City.     I  am  on  my  way  to  Rome. 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
To  Rome  ? 

TORQUEMADA. 
Aye,  base  and  lowly  creature  that  I  am,  I 
have  my  task  allotted  and  the  time  has  come. 
At  hazard  I  set  out,  barefooted ;  I  have 
journeyed  on  through  sand  and  snow.  My 
supplication  has  already  reached  the  Holy  See, 
for  I  know  Alexander  Sixth. 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
How  now  !  the  newly  chosen  pope  ? 

TORQUEMADA. 
He  is  a  Spaniard  like  myself.  We  knew 
each  other  at  Valentia.  His  name  is  Borgia. 
But  who  art  thou,  priest  of  this  unhewn 
chapel,  thou  venerable  man  whom  God  hath 
led  into  this  solitude  ?     Thy  name  ? 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
Francis  de  Paul.     And  yours  ? 

TORQUEMADA. 
Torquemada. 

( He  steps  back  with  respect. ) 
Francis  de  Paul !  a  saint. 


FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 


Not  so. 


190 


TOR  QUE  MA  DA 


TORQUEMADA. 
Thou  utterest  oracles ! 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
Not  so. 

TORQUEMADA. 

But  thou  dost  miracles  perform,  my  father, 
so  't  is  said. 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 

I  see  them.     Every  morn  the  dawn  doth 

turn  the  running  waters  silver-white,  the  great 

sun  rises   for   the   little   birds,   the  universal 

table  for  the  hungry  is  set  forth  in  field  and 

forest,  and   life   fills   the   darkness,  and   the 

flowers  open,  and  the  vast  blue  sky  is  glorious 

to  behold ;  but 't  is  not  I  who  do  these  things, 

but  God. 

TORQUEMADA. 

My  father,  Jesus  brings  us  face  to  face,  and 
I,  the  seer,  would  speak  with  thee,  the  apostle ; 
listen.  Hast  thou  not  sometimes  thought 
upon  the  pope,  him  of  the  tiara,  that  whited 
sepulchre,  and  hast  thou  not  said  in  thine  own 
heart  that  mayhap  some  unknown  and  humble 
pilgrim  is,  in  contrast  to  the  false  pontiff,  the 
true  priest,  and  that,  though  he  remain,  from 
sense  of  duty,  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  Christ's 
proud  vicar  raised  to  the  throne  by  chance, 
this  thoughtful  stranger  bears  within  his 
breast  the  true  heart  of  the  Church,  of  which 
the  other  wears  the  paltry  diadem?  What 
wouldst  thou  say  if  this  heaven-sent  unknown, 
this  leader  of  the  faith,  were  I? 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
The  pope,  God's  man,  doth  reign.    There 
are  not  two  Romes. 

TORQUEMADA. 
No  one  is  God's  man  if  he  be  not  man- 
kind's man  first  of  all.  That  man  am  I.  Hell 
and  its  everlasting  gloom  await  the  world.  I 
am  the  bloody-handed  healer.  With  calm 
face,  he  saves  mankind,  and  seems  a  terrible 


oppressor.  An  awe-inspiring  form  I  throw 
myself  into  the  work  that  pity  doth  enjoin 
upon  me, — pity  in  fearful  guise,  but  true  and 
efficacious  ;  love  is  the  abyss  wherein  I  plunge. 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
1  do  not  understand  you.     Let  us  pray. 

(He  kneels  before  the  altar.) 

TORQUEMADA. 
One  day,  't  was  long  ago,  when  I  was 
young,  and  had  but  for  a  brief  space  worn  this 
frock,  I  saw, — 't  was  at  Segovia  in  the  Holy 
Cross, — a  globe  whereon  was  drawn  the  world 
with  all  the  states ;  rivers  and  forests  ;  the 
whole  earth ;  a  mass  of  empires,  provinces 
and  cities ;  snow-capped  mountains,  island- 
dotted  oceans ;  all  the  boundless  depths 
wherein  the  vast,  swarming  human  race  moves 
to  and  fro  tuinultuously  in  the  darkness. 
Father,  thou  knovvest  that  there  is  no  emperor, 
idolater  or  Christian,  who  holds  not  in  his 
hand  a  globe ;  and  I  have  had  that  vision,  the 
whole  universe,  beneath  my  eyes;  each  nation 
and  each  zone ;  Europe  and  Africa ;  the 
Indies,  where  the  dawn  is  born;  I  said:  "I 
must  become  the  master."  And  I  said:  "I 
must  acquire  dominion  over  all  that  vast 
expanse  for  Jesus,  who  hath  often  called  me  in 
my  dreams.  Earth  I  must  take  and  give  it 
back  to  Heaven."  Yes,  father,  the  terrestrial 
sphere,  with  all  its  kingdoms,  all  its  wars  and 
conflicts,  turbulence  and  terror  and  confusion, 
is  my  globe, — now  dost  thou  understand  ? 

FRANCIS   DE    PAUL    (rising  and  placing  a  finger 
on  the  skull). 

This  is  my  sphere.  This  relic  of  a  ship- 
wrecked, foundered  destiny;  the  contempla- 
tion of  this  riddle  ;  the  shadow  that  eternity 
projects  upon  this  pensive  thing  of  naught ; 
this  skull  protruding  from  the  human  maelstrom 
like  a  reef;  these  teeth,  which  still  retain  their 
smile,  as  in  their  infancy,  after  the  eye  has 


PART  I.     ACT  II— THE   THREE  PRIESTS 


191 


lost  its  light ;  this  frightful  mask  which  we 
all  have  beneath  our  brows;  this  insect  that 
knows  what  we  do  not  know;  this  fragment 
with  full  knowledge  touching  the  unknown 
end  ;  to  feel  my  soul  laid  bare  beneath  that 
stony  glance,  to  think,  dream  and  grow  old, 
live  less  and  less,  with  those  two  black, 
unchanging  holes  for  witnesses  of  my  decay, — 
to  pray,  and  contemplate  this  nothingness,  this 
dust,  this  silence,  listening  in  the  shadow  to 
my  prayer — 't  is  all  I  have  ;  and  't  is  enough. 

TORQUEMADA  (aside). 
A   light   breaks  in    upon    my   mind    while 
listening  to  him.     Many  years  ago  did  Con- 
stantine,  who  was  well  worthy  of  the  throne, 
see  the  labaruni  in  the  air. 

(Looking  toward  the  skull. ) 

And  I  now  see  this  sign  !  And  by  it  I  will 
conquer,  as  did  Constantine.  This  holy 
hermit  points  out  to  my  dazzled  eyes  the  other 
form  of  truth,  the  other  light  of  Christianity. 
Yes,  I  will  keep  my  spliere  and  take  his  from 
him  !  so  that  the  reef  may  indicate  the  harbor, 
and  life  have  death  for  oriflamme  ! 
(To  Francis  de  Paul.) 

Hark  ye.  Dominic  did  not  well  under- 
stand the  sacred  flame.  It  is  sublime  unless 
it  be  inglorious.  Dominic  would  punish,  I 
would  save.  The  flames  about  the  stake  are 
quenched,  I  will  rekindle  them.  Now  dost 
thou  understand  ? 


I  do. 


FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 


TORQUEMADA. 
It  is  my  aim  to  kindle  upon  earth  the 
vast  and  salutary  conflagration.  Father,  no 
better  thing  than  this  was  ever  dreamed  of. 
In  my  darkness  I  hear  Jesus  say  to  me :  "  Go 
on  !  go  on  !  the  end  thou  aim'st  at  will  absolve 
thee  if  thou  dost  attain  it  !"  I  go  on  ! 
( Francis  de  Paul  places  the  bread,  the  wooden  platter 

and  the  jug  of  water  on  the  large  stone  which  he 

uses  for  a  table. ) 


FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
Here  are  cold  water,  bread  and  chestnuts. 
Drink  till  your  thirst  be  quenched,  and  eat 
your  fill.  As  for  your  schemes,  whereof  I  see 
the  end,  before  the  flames  arise  from  your  first 
funeral  pyre,  I  will  pray  God  for  you,  that  he 
may  strike  you  down  ;  for  better  far  for  you 
and  the  whole  human  race,  would  your  death 
be,  my  son,  than  such  a  step  on  such  a  road  ! 

TORQUEMADA  (aside). 
O  pitiful  enfeebling  of  a  mind  in  solitude  ! 
This  poor  saint  hath  not  understood. 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL. 
Man  is  on  earth  to  love  his  fellow  creatures. 
He  is  the  brother  and  the  friend.  If  he  kill 
one  poor  ant  he  should  know  why.  God  of 
the  human  mind  hath  made  a  w-ing  outspread 
over  creation,  and  man  may  not  proscribe 
one  living  thing,  'mongst  the  green  branches, 
in  the  grass,  or  in  the  sea  or  air.  To  man 
freedom  to  work,  the  tree-top  to  the  bird,  and 
peace  to  all.  No  chains.  No  cage.  If  man  's 
an  executioner,  God  is  but  a  tyrant.  The 
Gospel  hath  the  cross,  the  Alkoran  the  sword. 
Let  us  resolve  all  evil,  all  mourning,  and  all 
gloom  into  rich  blessings  for  this  wretched 
earth.  Who  smites  may  err.  So  let  us  never 
smite.  My  son,  the  scaffold  is  a  formidable 
challenge.  Let  us  leave  death  to  God.  Have 
recourse  to  the  tomb  ?  What  insolent  auda- 
city !  The  child,  the  dove,  the  flower,  the 
fruit,  the  woman — everything  is  sacred,  every- 
thing is  blessed  ;  and  when  by  day  and  night, 
musing,  I  pour  forth  from  the  mountain-top 
my  prayers  into  the  vast  expanse  below,  I  feel 
the  consciousness  of  this  infinity  of  love  stir- 
ring within  my  breast.  The  pope  is  pope, 
we  must  revere  him.  Ah  !  my  son,  always  to 
hope  and  always  to  forgive,  to  smite  not,  to 
pronounce  no  sentence,  to  repent  if  one  com- 
mits a  sin,  to  pray,  to  worship  and  have  faith — 


192 


TORQUEMADA 


such  is  the  law.     'T  is  my  law.     He  is  saved 
who  keeps  it. 

TORQUEMADA. 
Thyself  alone  thou  savest !     But,  old  man, 
what  of  the  others?    Ah  !  father,  the  unend- 
ing fall  of  souls,  by  night  and  day,  at  every 
instant,  into  hell,  the  fatal  pit  of  hell,  the 
black,  immeasurable   pit!    and   into   endless 
flame  and  horror!     Thou  dost  save  thyself, 
ah,  yes  !     But  what,  I  prithee,  dost  thou  with 
thy  fellow  men  ?    Thou  livest  peacefully,  eat- 
ing thy  walnuts  and  thy  apples,  like  Anselm 
or    Pacomo  in   the   Libyan  desert,   and   the 
world  should  be  content  with  that !   and  all  is 
well !    and  nothing  is  to  be  deplored  !     Hell, 
darkness,  souls  of  the  accursed,  what  are  all 
these,  provided  thou  art  left  to  meditate  in 
peace,  alone,  with  thy  straw  pallet  and  thy 
jug  of  water!     But  't  is  living  like  a  child 
and  not  like  an  old,  gray-haired  man  !     Thou 
hast  not  in  thine  heart,  as  the  Creator  hath,  a 
father's  love,  formidable  and  sacred  !     And  is 
the  human  family  of  no  account?    Why  one 
bestows  some  care  upon  his  ox !  one  physics  a 
sick  dog !    And  mankind  is  in  danger  !     Hast 
thou  then  no  bowels  of  compassion?     Thou 
livest  here  beneath   the  sky  as  if  thou  wert 
between  four  walls.     Dost  thou  not  feel  that 
thou  art  bound  by  ties  innumerable  to  execra- 
ble, blasphemous,  repulsive  man,  who  drags 
behind   him   everywhere  he  goes,  in   cavern 
depths,  on  mountain  tops,  his  misery,  which 


sheds  his  crimes  along  the  way?     No  one  of 
all  these  widespread  evils  touches  thee  1   What ! 
when  thou  seest  living  men  pass  by,  thou  dost 
not  feel  that  by  thy  soul  thou  art  akin  to  all 
these  ghastly  phantoms?     Ah  !  thou  dost  fold 
thy  hands !    thou  chantest  psalms  !    thou  goest 
and  comest  from  the  altar  to  the  cross,  from 
yonder  block  of  stone  to  yonder  bit  of  wood  I 
'T   is   isolation!     Now,  when   everything   is 
falling,  crumbling,  perishing,  duty  is  manifold, 
old  man  !     Duty  in   numberless,  implacable, 
unpleasant  forms  is  like  a  black  and  shapeless 
swarm  of  insects  in  the   conscience!     Duty 
tears  you  from  the  cloister,  from  the  solitude, 
and  cries  to  you:   "  Help  !  think  of  the  help- 
less multitudes  !    think  of  the  human  race  I 
slumberno  more  !  be  up  and  doing  !    Heaven! 
those  little  children  to  be  burned   forever! 
All  these  men  and  women,  young  and  old,  to 
be  hurled  down  among  the  howling  Sodoms  ! 
Run  !    save  these   souls   accursed,  and  drive 
them  back  by  force  to  Paradise  !     Old  man, 
for  that  are  we  upon  the  earth.     Thy  law  is 
light ;  my  law  is  mystery.     Thou  'rt  naught 
but  hope,  I  am  salvation.     I  lend  a  helping 
hand  to  God." 


(Some  moments  earlier  a  man  has  appeared  at  the 
entrance  of  the  cave.  He  also  is  old  and  gray- 
bearded.  He  has  a  boar  spear  in  his  hand  and  at 
his  neck  a  cross  with  three  branches.  He  is  dressed 
in  a  hunting  suit  of  gold  brocade,  and  a  tall  cap  of 
gold  with  three  circles  of  pearls.  He  has  a  horn  at 
his  belt.  He  has  heard  Francis  de  Paul's  last  words 
and  all  of  Torquemada's.  He  bursts  out  laughing. 
Francis  de  Paul  and  Torqueraada  turn.) 


PART  I.     ACT  II— THE   THREE  PRIESTS 


193 


SCENE    III 

The  Same  :  THE  HUNTER. 


THE  HUNTER. 
By  my  faith,  my  sons,  all  my  musicians 
would  not  afford  me  more  diversion  than  you 
do.  I  listened  to  you  with  great  pleasure. 
You  are  two  idiots.  I  was  below  upon  the 
hill-side,  hunting,  and  I  left  my  dogs  and 
snares  and  springes  there,  and  said  :  "  I  '11  go 
and  see  the  good  old  man  up  yonder."  Here 
I  am.  Ah  !  you  have  entertained  me  much  ! 
But,  in  good  sooth,  living  would  be  a  dreary 
business,  if  't  were  as  you  say. 

(He  walks  forward,  folds  his  arms,  and  looks  them  in 
the  face.) 

God — if  there  be  a  God,  he  opens  not  his 
mouth — assuredly,  in  making  man,  produced 
a  brainless  masterpiece.  But  the  progression 
from  earth-worm  to  viper,  viper  to  dragon, 
and  dragon  to  the  devil,  is  fine  indeed. 

( He  takes  a  step  toward  Torquemada. ) 

I  know  thee,  Torquemada.  Begone.  Return 
to  thine  own  land.  I  have  received  thy  sup- 
plication. I  do  grant  it.  Go,  my  son.  Thine 
idea  is  a  noble  one.  I  laugh  at  it.  Return 
to  Spain  and  do  whate'er  thou  wilt.  I  give 
my  nephews  all  the  goods  and  chattels  of  the 
Jews.  My  sons,  )ou  wondered  why  man  is 
upon  the  earth.  I  '11  tell  you  in  two  words. 
Wherefore  conceal  the  truth?  To  enjoy,  that 
is  to  live.  My  friends,  I  see  nothing  beyond 
this  world,  and  in  this  world  myself  Where'er 
he  looks  each  man  sees  some  one  word  that 
shines  through  every  obstacle. 


(To  Francis  de  Paul.) 
With  you,  the  word  is,  pray;  with  me  it  is, 
enjoy. 

TORQUEMADA  (looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  his 
companions). 

Two  forms  of  the  same  selfishness. 

THE  HUNTER. 
Chance  kneaded  dust  and  opportunity 
together ;  man  is  the  resulting  compound. 
Now,  as  I  myself,  like  you,  am  naught  but 
common  clay,  I  should  be  mad  indeed  to 
falter  and  go  slow  when  joy  is  swift  of  foot, 
and  not  to  take  a  hasty  bite  at  pleasure  in  the 
dark,  and  not  to  taste  of  everything,  since 
everything  is  fleeting  !  Before  all  to  be  happy. 
I  make  use  of  that  which  men  call  crime  and 
that  which  men  call  vice.  Incest — mere  prej- 
udice. Murder  —  an  expedient.  I  honor 
scruples  by  dismissing  them.  Think  you  that, 
if  my  daughter  's  lovely,  I  will  be  slow  to  fall 
in  love  with  her  ?  Go  to  !  I  should  be  a  poor 
fool.  I  must  exist.  Go  ask  the  hawk,  the 
eagle  or  gerfalcon,  whether  the  flesh  he  digs 
his  talons  in  is  lawful  prey,  or  if  he  knows 
from  what  nest  it  came  forth.  Because  you 
wear  a  black  frock  or  a  white,  you  deem  your- 
self in  duty  bound  to  be  inept  and  trembling, 
and  cast  down  your  eyes  before  the  offer  of 
unbounded  happiness  the  mad  world  puts 
before  you.  Let  us  then  show  our  wisdom. 
Let  us  seize  the  opportunity.     Death  has  no 


194 


TORQUEMADA 


sequel,  therefore  let  us  live  !  The  ball-room 
crumbles  and  becomes  the  catacomb.  The 
wise  man's  soul  goes  dancing  to  the  tomb. 
Serve  up  my  banquet.  If  it  demands  to-day 
a  seasoning  of  poison  for  another,  so  be  it. 
What  care  I  for  the  death  of  others?  I  have 
life.  I  am  a  greedy,  huge,  insatiable  hunger, 
and  the  world  to  nie  is  fruit  to  be  devoured. 


Death,  I  would  forget  thee.  God,  I  would 
know  naught  of  thee.  Living,  I  am  in  haste 
and  happy  always  ;  dead,  I  escape  ! 

FRANCIS  DE  PAUL  (to  l^quemada). 
Who  is  this  renegade  ? 


TORQUEMADA. 
The  pope,  my  father. 


PART  SECOND 


TORQUEMADA 


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ACT  SECOND 


T(n<QUEMAI)A. 
—Tr'Tppy  day,   <)   joy,   O   glory!     Now   the   awe-insinring^  and    majestic 
clemencv"  soars  hea^■..  nward  in  flame  !     Deliverance  forever  '     Ce  absolved,  ye 
damned  i___;UK  .tula-  on  earth  extinguishes  the  flau.es  of  hell  beneath. 

(He  I'll 'Us  ;U  ilie-'^y. 
Q,^  ,  ^jgfg^,^i  a  healing  balm  upon  the  ghastly  wound  of  darkness.  Para- 
dte  was  suffer.ng.  and  heaven  had  that  ulcer  rn  .ts  sWe,  a  blaz>ng.  l>loody  hell ; 
I  poured  the  kindlier,  healing  llame  upon  th.s  blaz.ng  hell,  and  u.  the  boundless 
azure  I  can  see  the  scar. 


i/i.,.-^.  .... 


DRAMATIS   PERSON/E 


TORQUEMADA 

DON  SANCHO 

DONNA  ROSA 

MARQUIS  DE  FUENTEL 

KING  FERDINAND 

QUEEN   ISABELLA 

GUCHO 

BISHOP  OF  SEO   DE  URGEL 

THE  KING'S  CHAPLAIN 

MOSES-BEN-HABIB,  Chief  Rabbi 

DUKE  D'ALAVA 

AN    USHER 

SOLDIERS,  PAGES,  MONKS, 
JEWS,  BLACK  AND  WHITE   PENITENTS 


ACT  FIRST 


The  royal  patio  ( Condes-reyes)  in  the  cloister-palace  of  the  Liana  at  Burgos. 

A  square  court-yard  surrounded  by  a  galleiy  with  trefoil  arches.  The  front  of  the  stage  forms  one  side  of 
this  gallery.  The  court-yard  has  two  great  public  gates  (one  gate  at  each  end  of  the  court-yard)  opposite  each 
other,  opening  into  the  city  streets.  The  gallery  in  the  foreground  ends  on  the  left  in  a  closed  folding-door  at 
the  top  of  a  flight  of  three  steps.  On  the  left  it  communicates  with  a  portico,  which  forms  a  sort  of  secluded 
nook.  Near  the  portico,  upon  a  platform,  is  a  tall  iron  chair,  covered  with  heraldic  emblems  and  crowned  with 
a  representation  of  the  pinnacle  of  the  Temple,  which  is  surmounted  by  a  sword,  point  upward. 

Under  the  portico  can  be  seen  two  priests,  standing  like  statues,  who  seem  to  have  been  stationed  there  to 
guard  a  casket  that  lies  on  the  floor. 


SCENE   I 

DON  SANCHO,  MARQUIS  DE  FUENTEL ;  afterward,  GUCHO. 


(Don  Sancho  is  dressed  in  cloth  of  gold.     He  has  a 
sword  at  his  side.) 

DON  SANCHO. 
Why,  't  is  a  dream  ! 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Nay,  't  is  reality. 

DON   SANCHO. 
I  am  a  prince  ! 


THE   MARQUIS. 
Aye,  King  of  Burgos. 

DON   SANCHO. 
I! 

THE   MARQUIS. 
In  this  fair  province  you  are   the  first  after 
the  king,  Don  Ferdinand. 

(He  kisses  Don  Sancho's  hand.) 
Yes,    everything    is    yours,    fortune    and 

grandeur. 

199 


200 


TORQUEMADA 


DON   SANCHO. 
And  Donna  Rosa  is  to  be  my  wife. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
An  hour  hence.  They  are  now  putting  on 
her  crown,  making  the  chapel  ready,  and 
beginning  to  say  prayers  for  you.  The  Bishop 
of  Seo  de  Urgel  is  to  marry  you.  And  I  am 
to  put  everything  in  order  for  the  ceremony. 
The  king  imposed  that  duty  on  me. 

DON  SANCHO. 
You,  our  good  genius  ! 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Donna  Rosa,  while  the  lights  are  being 
placed  upon  the  altar,  awaits  you  in  the 
cloister,  and  I,  Gil  de  Fuentel,  am  to  throw 
the  door  open  for  your  Highness,  so  that,  in 
accordance  with  the  ancient  custom,  you  may 
go  seek  your  bride  and  bring  her  hither  to  do 
homage  to  the  master  and  to  give  thanks  to 
him.  The  king  would  speak  with  you  before 
your  wedding.  Such  is  his  command.  He 
will  be  in  this  gallery. 

DON  SANCHO. 
I  would  prefer  to  go  straight  to  the  church. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
You  must  obey,  monsenor.     He  will  say : 
"I  do  consent."     Moreover,  't  is  the  ancient 
custom,  your   crown    being  feudatory  to  his 
own. 

DON  SANCHO. 
So  be  it. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
You  must  resign  yourself  to  bow  to  lawful 
customs. 

DON   SANCHO. 
And  my  father  .  .   .  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Was  Jorge,  Infant  of  Burgos. 


DON   SANCHO. 
And  my  grandfather  is  .   .  . 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
Myself ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
The  king,  who  was  the  Infant's  father. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
You  will  have  a  long  reign  and  a  prosper- 
ous .  .  .     Allow  me  to  be  your  guide. 

DON  SANCHO. 

With  my  eyes  closed.     I   know  not  why, 

but  I  believe  that  you  do  love  me.     'T  is  not 

long  that  I  have  known  you.     One  day  you 

came  hither  with  an  order — oh !   I  was  afraid 

at  first — to  take  myself  and  Rosa  from  our  old 

convent  to  the  master.     When  we  arrived  I 

was  afraid,  it  seemed  as  if  we  were  his  prey. 

At  last  we  are  to  marry,  and  my  heart  o'erflows 

with  joy,  and  by  your  side  I  feel  that  I  am 

safe. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

Rely  on  me.     I  wish  to  bring  about  your 

happiness,  and  I  commend  your  sacred  head 

to  God.     If   you   were   ill,  upon   a   bed   of 

suffering,  and    if,  as   formerly  for   Jean,  the 

Comte  de  Retz,  't  were  necessary  for  you  to 

drink  blood,   my  veins  I  'd  open   for  sheer 

delight  to  see  you  born  again  with  my  heart's 

blood,  while  I  was  dying  !     O  my  prince,  my 

king,  my  lord ! 

(Aside.) 

My  child  ! 
(Enters  Gucho.     He  hears  the  marquis's  last  words.) 

GUCHO  (aside,  watching  the  marquis). 
Ah !  what  a  kindly  air  !  What  a  triumphant 
air  !  But  what  's  the  odds  !  I  have  no  wish 
to  know  aught  of  their  mystery.  I  stand 
apart  from  all  mankind ;  and  were  I  able  to 
prevent  all  evil  or  to  cause  unmeasured  good 
on  earth  by  moving  but  one  finger,  I  would 


PART  II— ACT  I 


20 1 


not  do  it.     I  crawl  upon  the  ground,  I  watch 

what  others  do,  and  I  am  useless.     Such  is 

my  function. 

( Enters  a  company  of  the  African  guard  of  the  King 
of  Castile,  with  their  captain,  the  Duke  d'Alava,  at 
their  head.) 

THE  MARQUIS  (to  Don  Sancho). 
Beneath  this  peristyle  the  king   will  pres- 
ently await  monsenor. 

( He  ascends  the  fliglit  of  steps  and  throws  open  the 
folding  doors  leading  into  the  interior  of  the  palace 
cloister.    He  motions  to  Don  Sancho  to  follow  him.) 

Enter,  my  prince. 


(He   espies  the  soldiers  and   calls   Don   Sancho's 

attention  to  them.) 

This  guard  is  here  to  do  you  honor. 

(He  continues  to  talk  as  Don  .Sancho  mounts  the  steps.) 

When  you  hear  the  clarions,  your  Highness 
will  return,  leading  the  countess  hither  to  the 
king,  and  you  will  both  kneel  at  his  feet. 

(He  glances  outside  the  gallery.) 

Aha  !   here  comes  the  king  ! 

( Don  Sancho  passes  through  the  door  and  the  marquis 
follows  him.     The  door  closes  behind  them.) 

(Enters  the  king,  followed  by  his  chaplain.) 


202 


TORQUEMADA 


SCENE   II 

THE   KING,  GUCHO,  DUKE   D'ALAVA,  THE   KING'S   CHAPLAIN. 


THE  KING  (to  the  Duke  d'Alava). 
Come  hither,  duke. 

(The  duke  draws  near  the  king.) 

When  I  do  take  this  collar  from  my  neck 
to  place  it  upon  his  .  .   . 


THE  DUKE. 


I  listen,  sire. 


THE  KING  (glancing  at  the  guards). 
They  are  at  hand.     'T  is  well. 

(To  the  duke.) 
When  you  do  hear  me  say :  "I  dub  thee 
knight.  From  this  day  forth,  reign  and  may 
God  be  with  thee  !  "  then,  duke,  you  will  all 
draw  your  swords  behind  his  back,  and  kill 
him. 

THE  DUKE. 
Sire,  it  is  enough. 

GUCHO  (aside,  pressing  his  baubles  against  his  heart). 
My  dolls  are  in  less  jeopardy  than  men. 


(The  chaplain  puts  his  mouth  to  the  king's  ear,  and 
points  to  the  casket  guarded  by  the  two  priests  who 
stand  under  the  portico.) 

THE  CHAPLAIN  (in  an  undertone  to  the  king). 
There  are  the  sackcloth  garments.     They 
are  all  ready,  as  your  Highness  ordered. 

THE  KING. 
I  doubt  if  they  will  serve.     No  matter. 

( Pointing  to  the  portico. ) 
Wait  beneath  the  arch. 

(The  chaplain  joins  the  two  priests  under  the  portico. 
The  king  turns  to  the  captain  of  tlie  guards.) 

Thou,  duke,  be  ready. 

(Aside.) 

I  propose,  be  the  event  whate'er  it  may,  to 

have  at  hand  a  choice  of  means  to  put  an 

end  to  it. 

(The  door  at  the  top  of  the  steps  re-opens,  and  closes 
after  the  Marquis  de  Fuentel  has  passed  through. 
He  descends  the  steps  slowly.  The  king  has 
noticed  the  iron  chair  and  is  examining  it. ) 


PART  II— ACT  I 


203 


SCENE   III 


The  Same:  THE  MARQUIS. 


THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
An  hour  hence  he  will  be  married,  count 
and  prince  !  Each  passing  moment  is  a  step 
for  him  from  darkness  upward  to  the  light. 
But  one  more  step,  and  he  becomes  an  august, 
happy  potentate !  Oh !  how  the  guileless 
child  doth  beam  upon  the  despicable  grand- 
father !  I  weep,  bewildered  by  the  joy  of 
which  my  wicked,  humble,  desolate  old  heart 
is  capable,  O  gracious  God  ! 

THE  KING  (turning). 
Ah  !   marquis,  is  it  thou  ? 

THE  MARQUIS  (bowing). 
My  lord  king  .   .   . 

THE  KING. 

I  am  very  glad  to  speak  with  thee. 

(He  points  to  the  old  iron  chair.) 

What   is   that   chair?     and   why  that   sword 

above  it  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 

That  is  the  throne,  O  king,  whereon   your 

ancestor  Don  Gaicia  once  sat;   the  sword  is 

placed  upon  the  pinnacle  as  representative  of 

royalty. 

THE  KING. 

In  good  sooth,  in  this  realm  of  mine  I  am 

the  source  of  life  and  death. 

GUCHO  (to  the  king). 
King,  you  are  both. 

(Some  moments  before  a  procession  has  marched  into 
the  square  court  yard  from  the  gate  at  the  right,  head- 
ing for  the  gate  at  the  left.     There  are  two   files  of  i 


penitents,  one  white,  one  black.  They  march  slowly 
across  the  stage  witli  their  hoods  pulled  down.  The 
white  penitents  wear  black  hoods  and  vuc  versa. 
The  hoods  have  holes  for  the  eyes.  At  the  head  of 
the  two  files  a  black  penitent  with  a  black  hood 
carries  a  black  banner  upon  which  is  a  skull  and 
crossbones,  all  white.  The  procession  passes  across 
the  stage  slowly  and  silently.  Gucho  calls  the  king's 
attention  to  the  banner. ) 

THE  KING  (to  Gucho). 
Ah  yes  !   that  crawling  monk  ! 

GUCHO. 

Agreed.     Crawling,   but  great.     Everyone 

doth    tremble     before     Torqueniada ;      even 

yourself. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

One  seems,  when  looking  on  that  banner, 
to  smell  the  smoking  flesh  and  burning 
branches. 

THE  KING. 

Whither  go  yonder  fellows,  marquis? 

GUCHO. 
They  go  to  fetch  those  who  are  to  be 
burned  upon  the  public  square.  Suppose  you 
are  an  humble  citizen  ;  without  your  knowl- 
edge you  are  implicated  in  some  ghastly 
intrigue ;  or  mayhap  some  day,  in  your  o^vn 
house,  you  thoughtlessly  have  said  some 
foolish  thing ;  almost  before  the  fatal  words 
have  left  your  lips,  they  have  flown  away  in 
haste  to  the  Holy  Office,  there  to  fall  noise- 
lessly into  the  cruel  ear  ever  open  in  the 
darkness.      Thereupon    yon  banner  with    its 


204 


TORQUEMADA 


two  files  of  phantoms  issues  from  the  gloomy 
cloister,  and  the  procession  starts.  It  passes 
slowly  through  the  throngs  of  people,  over- 
turning everything  that  lies  before  it.  Noth- 
ing stays  its  course.  The  people  fly  as  soon 
as  it  appears.  These  men  are  tht  familiars  of 
the  Inquisition,  and  other  men  prostrate 
themselves  before  them ;  for  they  know  this 
vision  is  a  hand  stretched  out  to  seize  some 
man  in  his  own  home.  It  goes  throughout 
the  city, 

(Pointing  to  the  banner  and  the  two  files  of  men  who 
are  passing  across  the  stage. ) 

as  at  this  moment,  the  banner  always  march- 
ing at  the  head.  By  day  or  night,  without  a 
word,  without  a  chant,  it  goes  straight  onward 
to  its  destination,  mute  and  awe-inspiring. 
You  are  sitting  tranquilly  at  home,  mayhap  at 
table,  laughing  and  chattering,  plucking  flowers 
in  the  garden,  kissing  your  children,  suddenly 
you  see  that  death's  head  coming  toward  you 
in  the  gathering  dusk.  How  many  people 
burned  !  no  one  to-day  can  say  the  number. 
Whoever  sees  that  banner  drawing  near  to 
him  is  lost. 

(The  procession  and  the  banner  disappear  through  the 
great  gate  opposite  to  that  by  which  they  entered.) 

THE  MARQUIS    (in  an  undertone  to  the  liing). 

The  king  doth  give  the  clergy  over  much 
support.  Torquemada,  God  save  the  mark  ! 
hath  his  cabal  at  Rome,  speaks  to  the  pope, 


prepares  a  bull,  and  that  's  enough;  the  king 
is  overshadowed !  and  his  benignant,  daz- 
zling, radiant  power  ceases  to  give  light ! 
This  monk  is  a  usurper.  In  a  few  years  he 
hath  placed  his  base-born  head  upon  a  level 
with  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 

(The  liing  is  so  absorbed  in  thought  that  he  apparently 
pays  no  heed  to  tlie  marquis's  words.) 

(In  an  undertone  to  Gucho. ) 

He  doth  not  listen. 

GUCHO  (in  an  undertone  to  the  marquis). 

'T  is  because  he  hath  his  mind  on  other 

matters. 

( The  king  raises  his  head,  dismisses  all  the  bystanders 
to  the  back  of  the  stage  with  a  glance,  and  motions 
to  the  marquis  to  come  to  him.  He  leads  him  to 
the  front  of  the  stage  so  that  no  one  can  hear  what 
he  has  to  say  to  him.     Gucho  watches  them.) 

THE  KING  (to  the  marquis). 

I    have   always    followed    thy  advice   with 

profit;    I  esteem  it  far  above  all  other  men's 

and   listen   to   it.     Marquis,  I  would  consult 

thee  touching  an  affair  which  must  be  carried 

through  in  haste,  here  on  this  very  spot. 

(The  king  notices  Gucho,  who  has  remained  behind 
the  platform  on  which  the  iron  chair  stands.  He 
waves  him  back.     Gucho  walks  away.) 

GUCHO  (aside,  glancing  at  the  king  and  the  marquis). 

What 's  going  to  happen  now  ?  young  tiger 
and  old  cat ! 


PART  IT— ACT  I 


205 


SCENE   IV 

THE   KING,  THE   MARQUIS,  alone  at  the  front  of  the  stage.     The  guards  are  in  the  background  out  of 

hearing. 


THE  KING. 
I   will   abide  by  thy  advice.     I   know  its 
wisdom. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
I  know  what  that  means.     Your  Highness 
will  do  just  precisely  what  I  tell  you  not  to  do. 

THE  KING. 
In  politics  does  everything  go  on  as  thou 
wouldst  have  it?    What  seest  thou,  who  art  so 
versed  in  intrigue — what  seest  thou  in  Europe 
that  seems  durable  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
A  dike.  You  are  that  dike.  You  alone  do 
stand  erect.  All  other  powers  grovel  at  the 
feet  of  France,  who  waxes  greater  day  by  day ; 
my  lord,  at  one  point  only  are  you  vulnerable, 
— Navarre  ;  there  your  frontier  is  undefended. 
'T  is  most  fortunate  that,  long  before  our- 
selves, you  saw  the  danger,  found  the  remedy, 
and  snatched  the  Infant  Sancho  from  the  car- 
dinal and  that  old  petty  princeling  Orthez, 
until  at  last  the  scales  incline  toward  you. 
You  have  the  power,  Sancho  has  the  right. 
You  are  the  colossus,  he  the  fulcrum  of  your 
leVer.  As  the  eagle  holds  the  eaglet  in  its 
claws,  so  you  hold  him.  The  only  man  on 
earth  whose  life  is  necessary  to  your  fortune 
is  Don  Sancho.  While  he  lives,  France  is  in 
check. 

THE  KING. 

He  necessary  !  he  alone  is  necessary  to  me  ? 


THE  MARQUIS. 
He  with  the  Infanta  Donna  Rosa. 

THE   KING. 
And  thou  sayest  't  is  to  my  interest  that 
Sancho  lives  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Aye,  most  assuredly. 

THE  KING. 
Well,  when   that  door  is  presently  thrown 
open,  he  will  be  killed  upon  this  spot. 

(The  marquis  seems  paralyzed  with  terror.) 

This  Rosa  pleases  me.  Never  did  haughtier 
features  wear  a  modest  smile,  never  did  maiden 
show  a  happier  conjunction  of  gleaming  eye 
and  fascinating  voice  ;  she  looks  at  one  with 
an  expression  that  's  inhuman  in  its  sweet- 
ness ;  she  has  tiny  feet  that  I  could  easily  hold 
in  my  hand ;  she  trembles  at  the  slightest 
provocation,  and  is  the  lovelier  thereby.  Since 
I,  the  king,  esteem  her  channing,  Sancho  's 
in  the  way. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
'T  is  true. 

THE  KING. 

I  know  that  interests  of  state  would  have 

the  master  not  yield  to  his  inclinations.    What 

is  the   fitting  course  for  me  to  take?     This 

caprice  hath  not   come  upon  me  suddenly. 

One   wavers  long   the  while   a   fire   kindles. 

Think'st  thou  I  have  not  struggled  ?    I  said 

in  my  own  mind, — for,  mark  you,  I  have  not 


2o6 


TORQUEMADA 


failed  to  make  this  wearisome  comparison : 
"Deuce  take  me!  she  's  a  pretty  creature! 
true,  but  this  marriage  is  a  thing  to  be 
desired,  for  I  must  have  Navarre,  without 
which  I  have  no  frontier  at  all.  So,  love,  be 
coy  I  But  oh  I  what  eyes  !  and  what  a  velvet 
skin  !  what  grace  !  Ah  !  king,  stop  there  ! 
Wouldst  thou  for  the  first  petticoat  that  passes 
lose  in  one  day  the  fruit  of  ten  years'  fight- 
ing? Look  across  yonder  mountains.  The 
King  of  France  is  laughing  at  the  King  of 
Spain.  Go  to,  Sancho  and  Rosa  must  be 
wed.  The  Durance  and  the  Adour  ours,  our 
frontier  is  complete.  We  will  display  the 
genius  of  an  astute  and  crafty  politician, — let 
them  wed  I  't  is  said."  But  no!  what  yoke 
so  hard  to  bear  as  ours  when  we  see  her 
given  over  to  another's  arms  ;  I  will  not  brook 
it.  Down  with  my  rival  !  I  will  take  her 
from  him.  Am  I  a  slave,  and  are  my  sceptres 
masters  of  my  acts  ?  Am  I  to  tear  my  heart 
to  tatters  just  because  a  parcel  of  crowned 
spies  upon  the  Seine  or  Rhine  or  Tiber  have 
their  eyes  upon  me,  watching  for  the  hour 
when  my  ambition  may  be  caught  a-napping? 
To  be  a  great  king  is  a  heavy  burden.  The 
heart  takes  its  revenge.  It  grieves  me  to  be 
forced  to  slay  this  Sancho,  and  to  slay  him 
here,  by  his  own  fireside ;  but  we  are  not 
born  to  be  bored  to  death.  Pray,  is  it  my 
fault  that  this  girl  is  beautiful  ? 

THE   MARQUIS. 
In  truth  't  is  not  your  fault. 

THE   KING. 
Queen  Isabella  wearies  me,  beyond  descrip- 
tion.    I    must   have   another  wife.     Zounds, 
man,  I  have  a  right  to  love  ! 

THE   MARQUIS. 
The  lion  's  hungry. 


THE  KING. 
Hark.  I  love,  therefore  I  hate.  I  think 
upon  their  childhood  side  by  side  in  that 
secluded  cloister,  she  and  her  charms,  and 
he  with  his  audacity — the  grass,  the  green 
fields  and  the  darkness,  and  the  kisses  that  the 
saucy  rascal  stole  !  Don  Sancho  !  Ah  !  I  am 
jealous  of  him  !  and  I  give  my  jealousy  free 
rein  I  It  pleases  me  to  count  the  fierce  pulsa- 
tions of  keen  hatred  in  my  heart,  drunken  with 
rage ;  I  love  to  feel  the  shuddering  sensation 
creep  up  to  my  hair  !  To  hate  is  good.  To 
hold  one's  enemy  and  crush  him  and  trample 
him  beneath  one's  feet, — I  foam  with  joy  at 
the  mere  thought.  I  am  the  yawning  chasm, 
overjoyed  to  swallow  up  the  soaring  fish-hawk. 
I  feel  my  pulses  tremble  with  the  longing  to 
exterminate.  A  foolish  man  is  he  who  seeks 
to  throw  me  off  the  scent  !  I  brook  no 
obstacle.  I  have  Don  Sancho  here  and  I  will 
be  revenged  !  Revenged  for  what  ?  Because 
he  is  beloved.  Because  he  is  well-favored.  I, 
the  man  who  live  alone,  whose  mouth  is 
closed,  have  a  fierce  tempest  in  my  heart,  and 
numberless  opposing  currents.  Murder  is  my 
friend  ;  Cain  is  my  brother ;  and  while  my 
bearing  is  grave,  cold  and  indolent,  I  feel  my 
will  bursting  all  bounds,  as  the  volcano,  lying 
cold  beneath  its  snowy  blanket,  feels  the  lava 
rising  to  its  mouth  in  glowing  waves.  He 
who  should  seek  to  soften  me  would  make  me 
roar  the  louder  ;  the  attempt  to  soothe  my 
wrath  would  drive  me  mad.  Marquis,  I  would 
crush  God  himself!  There  are  two  ways  to 
put  the  Infant  out  of  sight. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
Two  ways  ! 

THE   KING. 
One  sad   to  think  upon,   the   cloister;  the 
other,  swift  and  certain  death.     The  cloister  ? 
Yes.     The  tomb    however   is  the  surest.     It 


PART  II— ACT  I 


207 


hears  naught.  It's  dejiths  are  trustworthy. 
It's  door  is  heavy.  The  cloister  's  dumb,  the 
tomb  is  deaf.  The  tomb  has  this  advantage 
that  no  one  conies  forth  from  it.  The  cloister 
is  a  changeless  circle,  drawn  by  a  ghastly 
compass.  No  one  ever  turns  therein.  Don 
Sancho  there  would  see  his  fair  locks  turned 
to  gray,  and  he  would  grow  to  be  an  old,  old 
man,  a  prisoner  in  those  gloomy  precincts.  I 
can  choose  between  them.  I  prefer  that  he 
should  die.     What  thinkest  thou  ? 

THE   M.\RQUIS. 
That  you  are  right. 

THE   KING. 
What  say  you  ? 

THE   MARQUIS. 
Sire,  let  him  die. 

THE  KING  (aside). 
What  was  that  fable  some  one  whispered  to 
me,  that  Sancho  was  his  son  ?     ft  is  not  true  ! 

THE   MARQUIS. 
I  argue  as  you  do. 

THE  KING  (aside). 
What  lies  are  breathed  in  a  king's  ears  ! 

THE   MARQUIS  (watching  him  narrowly). 
I  go  with  you. 

THE   KING. 
So  thy  advice  is  that  he  die  ? 


THE  MARQUIS. 


It  is. 


THE  KING  (.iside). 
Ha !  this  is  dubious.  Just  now  he  swore 
that  this  Don  Sancho  was  most  necessary  to 
me,  and  that  he  must  live  for  the  advantage 
of  my  realm.  With  Sancho's  death  my  claim 
ujion  Navarre  expires.  I  have  on  one  side 
France,  the  empire  on  the  other. 


( Looking  askance  at  ihe  marquis. ) 
Whither  does  he  seek  to  lead  me?     He  has 
some  scheme,  the  traitor. 

(Aloud.) 
'T  would  be  pleasant  to  devour  Sancho  all 
at  once,  but  what  if  I  should  nibble  at  him? 
To  have  him  in  a  cloister  is  to  have  him 
always 'twi,xt  my  teeth.  Suppose  I  keep  him 
there,  that  I  may  watch  him  languish,  droop, 
and  suffer  all  the  torments  of  the  damned,  a 
dull-eyed,  stupid  cur?  A  slow  revenge  delights 
the  soul.     What  thinkest  thou  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Why  choose  the  crooked  path  ?     Sire,  go 
straightway  to  your  end.     Smite,  kill. 

THE  KING  (aside). 

The  villain  !  Hitherto,  in  all  our  interviews, 
he  was  for  Don  Sancho.  He  forgets,  but  I 
remember. 

(Glancing  at  the  marquis,  who  is  watching  him.) 

Double  face,  whereon  I  catch  a  sudden 
gleam  !  What  reason  hath  he  thus  to  spur  my 
hatred  on  ?  The  deuce !  how  quickly  he 
became  of  my  opinion  ! 

(Aloud.) 

Blood  .   .   . 

THE  MARQUIS. 
The   bloody  kings  are  they  who  are  best 
served.     Kill. 

THE  KING  (aside). 

He  is  sold  to  France  !  the  beggar  ! 

(.-Vloud.) 

But  thousaidst  to  me:  "  Sancho  is  your  hope. 

He  is  essential  to  you  ;  while  he  lives  peace  is 

assured  on  the   frontier." 

THE   MARQUIS. 
I  was  mistaken.     You  are  great.     No  one  is 
necessary  to  you.     Nay,  not  even  God.     Kill. 


2o8 


TORQUEMADA 


THE  KING. 

Thy  advice  I  feel  is  most  sincerely  given. 
But  reflect.  The  people,  a  vile  horde  of 
mendicants,  are  ill-disposed  to  politics  and  its 
expedients ;  the  rabble,  quickly  moved  to 
pity,  grieve  when  a  breast  is  pierced  by  a 
sword-thrust  or  two.  They  mourn  for  the 
departed,  more  especially  if  he  were  a  well- 
favored  youth.  They  weep  for  me  when  I  am 
in  my  coffin,  forget  me  when  I  am  in  prison. 
Ah !  my  friend,  we  must  beware  of  too  bold 
strokes.  Sancho  is  young.  The  taste  for 
tragedy  is  dying  out.  Many  good  people 
would  be  greatly  pleased  to  have  him  under- 
going a  mild  species  of  confinement  in  a 
convent.  Mildness  is  so  delectable  !  When 
he  is  once  in  durance  in  the  cloister,  can  he 
escape  ?    Not  so. 

THE   MARQUIS. 

The  tomb  's  the  surer  guardian. 


THE  KING. 


But  murder 


THE  MARQUIS  (pointing  to  the  palace). 
These  walls  are  well  accustomed  to  it. 

THE  KING  (aside). 
Traitor ! 

(Aloud.) 
Marquis,  what  is  thy  last  word  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Kill. 

(Fanfare  of  trumpets.) 

Ah  !  the  clarions  !  here  they  come  ! 

(Tlie  door  of  the  palace  is  thiown  wide  open.  Don 
Sancho  and  Donna  Rosa,  hand  in  hand,  appear  at 
the  top  of  the  steps.  Donna  Rosa  in  a  dress  of 
silver  lace  with  the  crown  of  pearls  on  her  head. 
Don  Sancho  with  an  earl's  hat,  surmounted  by  the 
alumbrado  plume,  a  combination  of  feathers  and 
jewels.  At  their  right  is  the  Bishop  of  Seo  de  Urgel, 
with  the  mitre  on  his  head.  Behind  thera  lords  and 
ladies,  and  priests  in  embroidered  copes.) 


PART  II— ACT  I 


209 


SCENE   V 

The  Same:   DON   SANCHO,   DONNA   ROSA,  BISHOP  OF  SEC   DE   URGEL. 


THE  BISHOP. 

Ferdinand,  King  of  Castile,  this  man,  Don 

Sancho,     weds    tliis   maiden,    Donna    Rosa, 

both  descended  from  the  Gothic   kings,  she 

lady  of  Orthez,  he  Count  of  Burgos;  if  't  is 

your  pleasure,  O  my  master,  I  propose  to  join 

their    hands   in   matrimony.       And    Sancho, 

led  by  the  priest,  comes  to  your  feet,  bringing 

his  wife  to  you  and  offering  you  his  faithful 

homage,  for  he  is  count  and  you  are  king. 

( Don  Sancho  and  Donna  Rosa  descend  the  steps  and 
kneel  before  the  king.  The  Duke  d'Alava  takes  a 
step  forward.  The  Marquis  de  Fuentel  watches  with 
bated  breath.) 

DON  SANCHO. 

I  lay  all  my  possessions,  sire,  at  your  feet. 

THE  KING  (gazing  sternly  at  the  bishop). . 
What    madness   is   this,    bishop !    thou,    a 
priest,  dost  join  a  nun  in  holy  wedlock  with  a 
monk. 

THE  BISHOP. 

My  lord  and  king  !  .   .   . 

THE  KING. 
Knowest  thdu  not  that  they  have  ta'en  the 
vows  ?      And   dar'st    thou   consummate   this 
ghastly  sacrilege,  unfearing? 


THE  BISHOP. 


Sire!   .   . 


THE  KING. 

A    frock    for    this    man  !    a   veil    for   this 

woman  ! 

(The  chaplain  and  the  priests  come  out  from  under  the 
portico.  One  of  the  priests  has  a  black  veil  in 
his  hands,  the  other  a  frock  of  coarse  sackcloth.  One 
priest  throws  the  veil  over  Donna  Rosa,  the  other 
puts  the  frock  upon  Don  Sancho.  His  face  dis- 
appears behind  the  hood  and  Donna  Rosa's  behind  the 
veil.  The  soldiers  surround  them.  They  tear  Don 
Sancho's  sword  from  his  belt.  The  king  makes  a 
violent  gesture.) 

Away   with    both    of   them.      Each   to   a 

convent ! 

DON  SANCHO  (struggling  under  the  hood). 
Your  Majesty  ! 

THE  KING  (to  the  priests). 
You  '11  answer  to  me  for  this  man. 

THE  MARQUIS  (breathing   freely). 
Alive  ! 

( The  priests  and  soldiers  lead  Don  Sancho  away  in  one 
direction  and  Donna  Rosa  in  the  other.) 

THE  KING  (in  an  undertone  to  the  marquis). 

I  '11  find  a  way  to  lay  my  hand  on  her  again. 
Sometimes,  thou  knowest,  a  woman  comes 
forth  from  a  cloister. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
Aye,  and  sometimes  a  man  ! 


-  .',..,,/ /.„<^<^„„^  ,„  igfl/J 


ACT  SECOND 


An  apartment  in  the  old  Moorish  palace  at  Seville.  This  palace  looked  out  upon  the  Tablada  where  the 
Quemadero  was  located. 

The  apartment  is  the  council  hall.  The  back  of  the  apartment  is  on  a  level  with  a  gallery  with  small 
Arabian  columns,  which  looks  out  of  doors,  and  is  closed  by  an  immense  curtain.  At  the  left  a  long  table,  at 
the  ends  of  which  are  two  high  chairs  surmounted  by  royal  crowns ;  the  chairs  are  just  alike.  On  the  same 
side,  a  low,  narrow  door,  concealed  by  the  hangings,  leading  to  divers  secret  stairways  and  passages.  On  the 
opposite  side,  the  right,  in  a  jog-piece  which  extends  to  the  gallery  at  the  back,  large  folding-doors  at  the  top  of 
a  flight  of  three  steps. 

The  table  is  covered  with  a  cloth  on  which  are  embroidered  the  arms  of  Aragon  and  Castile. 

In  the  middle  of  the  table,  on  a  great  silver  salver,  are  thirty  piles  of  gold  pieces, — high,  thick  piles — 
forming  a  massive,  square  block  of  gold  in  the  middle  of  the  salver. 

Upon  the  table  a  silver-gilt  writing  case,  parchment,  vellum,  wax  and  seals.  Gilded  and  painted  pen-holders 
in  the  holes  of  the  inkstand. 

Near  the  table  a  credence  with  drawers. 


SCENE   I 

MARQUIS  DE  FUENTEL,  MOSES-BEN-HABIB,  C/wt/j^aW;.  They  enter  together  through  the  secret  door. 


THE  MARQUIS. 
Money,  money,  more  money  ! 

(The  rabbi  points  to  the  salver  filled  with  crowns  in 
the  middle  of  the  table.  The  marquis  examines 
the  pile  of  gold. ) 

Very  good. 


THE  CHIEF  RABBI. 
Thirty  piles,  each   of   a   thousand   golden 
rowns. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
A  trusty  agent. 


212 


TORQUEMADA 


THE  CHIEF  RABBI. 
Isabella  is  a  miser. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
And  Ferdinand  a  spendthrift.  Truth  dwells 
at  tlie  bottom  of  a  well,  and  intrigue  in 
a  gold  mine.  One  may  obtain  by  gifts 
permission  from  the  mighty  ones  of  earth  to 
live.  In  order  to  escape  the  king,  the  judge 
who  cozens  you,  the  prince,  the  priest,  a  poor 
man  must  be  rich.  All  kings  are  beggars. 
We  must  supply  their  needs  with  lavish  hand. 

(To  the  rabbi.) 
Go,  Jew.     Return  by  the  same  secret  stair- 
case.    For  the  king  is  close  upon  my  heels. 

THE  CHIEF  RABBI. 
Monsefior,  since  there  still  is  time,  I  do 
beseech  you,  save  the  Jewish  people. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
The  danger  is  most  urgent. 
(Dismissing  him.) 

Go. 

THE  CHIEF  RABBI. 

I  count  upon  you. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

Count  upon  thy  cash. 

THE  CHIEF  RABBI. 
Will   not   the   poor,   despairing    multitude 
who  weep  without  be  presently  permitted  to 
come  hither  and  to  kneel  before  the  king  and 
queen  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
So  be  it.     But,  for  the  moment,  go. 

THE  CHIEF  RABBI. 
O  day  of  woe  !  if  the  king  come  not  to  our 
aid,  one  hundred  aged  Jews  are  to  be  burned 
in  this  good  city,  even  here,  in  Seville ;  and 
the  remainder  of  the  chosen  people  will  be 
driven  forth,  alas ! 


THE  MARQUIS  (pensively). 
Yes,    everything    's   in    readiness    for    the 
auto-da-fe,  announced  so  long  ago. 

THE  CHIEF  RABBI. 
And  is  it  true  that  the  king  leaves  Seville 
to-night  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Yes.  For  a  day.  He  will  return  to-morrow. 
The  charter  of  King  Tulgas,  our  oldest  code 
of  laws,  provides  that  the  king  pass  the  mor- 
row of  an  execution,  praying  with  the  queen 
at  the  convent  in  the  town  of  Triana. 

THE  CHIEF  RABBI. 
They  would  not  have  the  task  of  praying 
for  the  dead,  did  they  not  kill.     Monsefior, 
try  to  save  us. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

Speak  lower,  and  be  gone. 

(The  rabbi  bows  to  the  ground  and  goes  out  through 
the  door  in  the  hangings,  which  closes  behind  him.) 

THE  MARQUIS  (looking  at  the  door  through  which 
the  Jew  passed), 

'T  is  not  thy  Jew's  hide,  nor  the  hides  of 

all  thy  chosen  people,  that  cause  my  anguish 

and   my  zeal,  and   drive   me  on  to  venture 

everything.     Alas !    I   shudder  when  I  hear 

the  ghastly  knell   of    the    auto-da-fe.     Don 

Sancho  's  in  a  monastery,  refusing  to  become 

a  monk,  refractory  and  obstinate.     They  may 

at   any  moment  toss  him  in  the  flames.     I 

tremble.     Ah !    that  awful  cloister !     I  must 

tear  him  from  it !     How  ? 

(The  great  door  at  the  back  is  thrown  open.  Enters 
the  king,  followed  by  Gucho.  Both  wings  of  the 
door  close  as  soon  as  the  king  has  passed  through. ) 

(The  king  is  in  the  full  dress  costume  of  the  Order  of 
Alcantara,  with  the  sinople  cross  embroidered  in 
emeralds  on  the  cloak.  He  wears  a  green  velvet 
hat  without  a  plume,  surmounted  by  the  royal 
crown.) 

(Gucho  crouches  behind  one  of  the  arm-chairs.) 


PART  II— ACT  II 


213 


SCENE   II 

THE   MARQUIS,  THE  KING,  GUCIIO. 


(The  king  seems  to  be  deeply  absorbed  in  thought,  and 
to  pay  no  heed  to  his  surroundings. ) 

THE  KING  (aside). 
'T  were  better  to  do  nothing  roughly.     I 
prefer  that  way. 

THE  MARQUIS  (to  the  king  with  a  reverence). 

A   great   catastrophe  is  imminent   to-day. 

If  't  is  permitted  by  the  king. 

(The  king  raises  his  head.  The  marquis  points  toward 
the  square  which  is  hidden  by  the  curtain  of  the 
gallery  at  the  back  of  the  stage.) 

A  grand  auto-da-fe.  A  swarm  of  peoi)le 
burned  alive.  At  the  same  time  an  edict  of 
expulsion  of  the  Jews.  A  whole  race  stolen 
by  a  monk  from  Castile's  king. 

THE  KING. 
A  worthless  horde  expelled,  a  hissing  stake, 
is  that  thy  great  catastrophe? 
(He  spies  the  salver  laden  with  gold  on  the  table.) 
Aha!  more  money? 

(To  the  marquis.) 
And  from  whom  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
The  Jews. 

THE  KING. 
How  much  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Thirty  thousand  golden   crowns,  which  in 
the  name  of  thirty  cities  they  do  offer  you. 

THE  KING. 
'T  is  well.    What  do  they  ask? 


THE  MARQUIS. 

That  they  may  be  left  undisturbed. 

THE  KING. 
'T  is  overmuch.    I  cannot  leave  men  undis- 
turbed for  being  Jews. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
I  pray  that  your  kind  heart  will  deign  to 
accept  this  gold  which  a  whole  loyal  people 
lays  at  the  feet  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella. 
They  implore  the  king  their  master  to  prevent 
the  burning  of  a  hundred  of  their  number  at 
the  stake  to-day. 

THE  KING. 
'T  is  overmuch. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
To  burn  a  hundred  ? 

THE  KING. 
No.  To  pray  me  to  prevent  an  auto-da-fi. 
My  wife  is  preaching  to  me,  and  the  pope. 
Both  are  forever  by  my  side,  most  urgent  for 
harsh  measures.  I  must  let  them  burn  a  few 
poor  devils.  Otherwise  I  shall  know  no 
peace.     What  news?     What  do  folk  say  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Oh  !  naught  of  consequence.     Kt  Cordova, 
Tudela,  Saragossa,  men  are  being  burned. 


THE  KING. 


And  then  ? 


214 


TOROUEMADA 


THE  MARQUIS. 
Count  Requesen's,  one  day  when  he  was 
drunk,  swore  by  the  saints.  Sire,  the  Inquisi- 
tion, heedless  of  his  rank,  condemned  him  to 
be  burned  to  death  in  his  own  city,  in 
Gerone  ;  and,  as  no  servant  had  denounced 
him,  the  whole  household  of  the  count 
accused  of  blasphemy  were  tortured  with  the 
burning  brand,  and  every  mortal  perished  at 
the  stake,  even  to  the  fool. 

(Giicho  jumps  as  if  suddenly  awakened.) 

GUCHO  (aside). 
I  will  become  instanter  a  familiar  of  the 
Inquisition  !  Fever  and  pestilence  !  And  I 
will  enter  on  the  functions  of  the  post ! 
Damnation  !  to  be  burned  alive  is  not  my 
business. 

THE  KING  (looking  at  the  pile  of  gold). 
Fruit  of  one  bleeding  of  the  Jews.    They  're 
an  auriferous  trilie. 

GUCHO  (aside). 
'T  is  quite  enough  for  me  to  see  the  others 
roast. 

THE  MARQUIS  (to  the  king). 

The  Hebrews  .   .   . 

THE  KING. 
Say  the  Jews  ! 

THE  MARQUIS. 
The  Jews,  sire,  an  industrious  and  numer- 
ous race,  most  humbly  pray  the  king  to  toler- 
ate them  here  in  Spain,  and  to  revoke  the 
edict  that  doth  exile  them,  and  not  be  moved 
to  wrath  to  see  them  at  his  feet. 

THE  KING. 
What  more  do  they  desire? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
To  die  where  their  forefathers  died.     To 
abide  in  their  own  land,  and  I  do  offer  you 
their  ransom,  sire.     Take  it. 


THE  KING. 
If  the  queen  consents,  I  will  consent.     Let 
her  be  summoned. 

(At  a  sign  from  the  king,  Gucho  goes  to  the  door  at 
the  back  of  the  stage  and  opens  it.  An  official  of 
the  palace  appears  in  the  opening.  Gucho  speaks  to 
him  in  a  low  tone.  The  officer  bows  and  retires. 
The  door  closes  and  Gucho  returns  to  his  post 
beside  the  chair.) 

THE  MARQUIS. 
King,  the  Jews  will  pass  their  lives  in  bless- 
ing you. 

THE  KING. 

I  want  their  money,  not  their  prayers. 
Their  blessings  are  an  insult  to  me. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
King,  your  fathers  were  well  pleased  to  have 
the  Jews  for  subjects.     When  they  are  driven 
out,  't  is  one  less  people  in  the  realm. 

THE  KING   (imperiously). 

Enough  !  As  if  a  people  were  of  any  con- 
sequence !  A  maiden  is  the  subject  of  my 
thoughts!  Ah!  since  I  placed  those  bars 
betwixt  her  and  myself,  I  cannot  sleep,  I 
think  of  her  incessantly,  she  must  be  mine. 
Go  to  !  I  am  more  passionately  in  love  with 
Rosa  than  I  ever  was,  and  you  must  come  and 
talk  to  me  of  politics  !  I'm  all  for  love. 
What  of  Don  Sancho  ?     Is  he  yet  a  monk  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Not  yet. 

THE  KING. 

The  scaffold  waits  for  him  if  he  doth  still 

refuse.     He  shall  not  live.     I   placed   them 

both  in  convents   in   the  city  where  I  dwell, 

that  I   might   have   them  always   'neath  my 

hand.     The  little  one  at  the  Assumption,  he 

behind  the  gratings  of  the  convent  of  Saint 

Anthony,  wherein   Don   Jayme  the   Red,  my 

ancestor,  did  once  immure  his  wayward  son. 

Don  Sancho  shall  turn  priest,  and  I  will  have 

the  maiden.     I  shall  soon  deliver  Rosa. 


PART  II— ACT  II 


215 


THE  MARQUIS. 
What  of  the  late  decree  concerning  con- 
vents ? 

THE  KING  (insuqjrise). 

The  late  decree  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Whoever,  were  it  your  royal  self,  dares  go 
into  a  cloister  to  lay  hand  on  any  person 
whomsoever  therein  being,  is  declared  an  out- 
law, traitor,  faithless  to  his  God,  anathema, 
and  parricide. 

THE  KING. 
Is  't  so? 

(Gazing  fixedly  at  the  marquis.) 
I   enter   where   I   choose,   and    I  am  king 
where'er  I  go.     The  moment  is  at  hand  when 
I  propose  to  set  free  the  Infanta.     Rosa  shall 
be  mine ! 

THE  MARQUIS. 

Ah  !   you  will  have  to  do  with  .   .  . 

THE  KING. 
Have  to  do  with  whom  ? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Why  .   .   . 

THE  KING. 
Tell  me.     Speak. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
With  Torquemada. 

THE  KING. 
I,  the  king  ! 

THE  MARQUIS. 
And  he,  the  grand  inquisitor  ! 

THE  KING. 
God  save  the  mark  ! 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Your  Majesty,  the  church  in  him  is  incar- 
nate.    If  he  is  angry  .  .  . 

THE  KING. 
Well  ? 


THE  MARQUIS. 
'l"he  church  doth  easily  lay  hold,  but  most 
unwillingly  lets  go.  He  is  inquisitor.  It  is 
his  duty  to  look  to  it  that  each  convent  has  its 
complement  of  inmates.  Not  a  nun  nor 
monk  is  there  whom  fraud  or  force  can  tear 
away  from  him  !  He  prowls  about  the  cloister, 
sire,  showing  his  teeth,  snapping  at  everyone 
like  a  wild  beast,  and  all  these  lambs  are 
guarded  by  a  wolf.  The  king,  if  he  be  wise, 
will  not  attack  the  i)riest.  Sire,  Torquemada 
stands  across  your  path.  He  holds  the  king 
in  check,  whatever  you  may  do. 

THE  KING. 
'T  is  naucrht  to  me.     He  is  a  man  to  bribe. 


THE  MARQUIS. 


Try. 


THE   KING. 
If  it  pleases  me  to  crush  this  monk   .  .  . 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Try,  sire. 

THE  KING. 

I  can  lavish  on  him  everything  that  man 

desires,  and  the  haughtiest  have  always  bowed 

before  me.     First  of  all,  to  bring  a  priest  to 

reason,  we  have — women. 

THE    MARQUIS. 
He  is  old. 

THE  KING. 

Then  there  are  dignities,  the  mitre,  a 
diocese,  a  grandeeship,  a  title,  honors  and  the 
purple. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

It  is  his  purpose  to  remain  a  monk. 


Money. 


THE  KING. 
s 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Sire,    it  is  his   purpose   to  remain  a  poor 
man. 


3l6 


TORQUEMADA 


THE  KING  (thoughtfully). 
True  it  is  that,  humble,  old  and  indigent, 
this  man  is  powerful. 

(He  folds  his  arms  and  reflects.) 
To  have  this  threatening,  omnipotent  pov- 
erty equal  to  myself,  casting  a  shadow  on  my 
throne,  nay,  seated  by  my  side  !     This  fellow 
always  on  a  level  with  the  king  ! 

THE  MARQUIS. 
And  even  higher ! 

THE  KING. 
No  !  no  ! 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Women,    honors,   money  have   no   power. 
None   of   those   methods    is   available  to  rid 
yourself  of  this  gray-bearded  monk. 

THE  KING. 
I  will  find  others  then.      Dost  understand  ? 

eh? 

THE  MARQUIS. 

No.     What  may  they  be  ? 

THE  KING. 
The   true   means.      Dost  thou  understand 

me? 

THE  MARQUIS. 
No. 

THE   KING. 

The  old  priest  Arbuez — why  not  revive  this 
method  ? — was  stabbed   upon  the   very   altar 

steps. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

That  had  but  ill  success.  They  made  of 
him  Saint  Arbuez.  And  that  was  all.  You 
reign  and  you  distribute  at  your  pleasure 
titles,  wealth  and  blows  of  the  headsman's 
axe.  But  with  its  tongues  of  fire  the  church 
doth  seize  the  hand  that  threatens  it.  By 
persecuting  it  you  build  it  up.  The  priests 
have  this  strange  quality,  that,  if  you  kill 
them,  they  are  the  more  alive.     Nothing  can 


wipe  them  out.  From  a  heap  of  dead  priests  a 
ghost  is  born,  it  is  the  priest.  Their  blood  's 
immortal  and  their  bones  prolific.  We  crush 
them  while  they  live,  invoke  them  when 
they  're  dead.  Ah  !  king,  you  persecute  the 
church.  It  extricates  itself  with  palm-leaves, 
chanting,  tears  and  martyrdom.  Strike  down 
these  cloistered  serpents,  drunk  with  gall,  and 
massacre  them.  Good.  Now  raise  your  eyes 
to  heaven;  see,  't  is  full  of  saints — saints  of 
your  making,  sire.  Clasp  your  hands,  fall  on 
your  knees.  For  my  part  I  admire  the  church, 
for  be  she  slave  or  queen,  she  always  has  the 
latest  word.  Her  minions  swarm  on  earth  and 
swarm  in  heaven.  You  crush  her  as  a  worm 
and  she  is  born  again  a  brilliant  star. 

THE  KING  (in  a  depressed  tone). 
She  is  the  disease  and  I  the  patient.     Thou 
sayest  true.    Set  Rome  at  naught !    Men  have 
repented  having  done  it.    I  must  be  resigned. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
How  he  doth  change  his  mind  !  With  him 
the  danger  lies  in  this,  that  one  must  needs 
advise  the  contrary  in  order  to  persuade  him 
to  do  aught,  and  urge  him  toward  the  south 
that  he  may  go  tov^'ard  the  north.  And  this 
time  he  has  faith  in  me.  The  devil  !  how  my 
stratagem  hath  gone  astray !  The  tortuous 
path  which  I  thought  best  to  use  is  good  for 
naught.  Now  I  will  go  straight  to  my  purpose. 
I  will  change  my  tactics. 

(Aloud.) 

Ah  !  you  have  allowed  the  tonsured  knave, 
the  monk,  to  grow  in  stature,  and  he  now  has 
reached  a  towering  height. 

THE  KING  (musing). 
This  Torquemada  .   .   . 

THE  M.\RQUIS. 
Holds  Spain  in  his  grasp.     He  is  the  real 
pope.     Wherever  you  so  much  as  touch  your 


PART  II— ACT  II 


217 


nail,  he  lays  his  paw.  He  takes  your  place. 
Your  Majesty,  the  time  has  passed  when  you, 
whenever  it  seemed  good  to  you,  selecting 
your  own  time,  could  enter  any  convent  with 
a  threat,  and  force  the  greedy  church  to  loose 
its  hold.  In  those  days  you  could  hang  an 
abbot.  Now,  meddle  not  with  him.  Ah ! 
this  monk  is  most  embarrassing.  Your 
gallows  !  lay  a  hand  upon  the  priest !  let  him 
come  on  !  Your  power  to  punish  has  every- 
thing to  fear  from  his  ;  and  certes  he  would 
laugh  to  see  you  ]3lace  your  wooden  gallows 
near  the  flames  about  his  stake.  'T  is  an 
unequal  duel.  The  whole  earth,  sire,  is  this 
monk's.  As  one  sets  fire  to  quick-burning 
hay,  so  doth  his  torch  go  running  everywhere, 
and  change  to  ashes  living  men.  The  awe- 
struck palaces  have  a  conventual  air.  The 
clergy  puts  forth  sprouts  on  every  side  and 
grows  as  swiftly  as  the  nettle.  Everyone  bows 
down  to  the  base  eyebrows  of  a  frowning 
monk.  Let  him  escape  who  can.  The  proud 
men  grovel,  and  the  bold  men  tremble.  What 
is  being  done  from  Cadiz  to  Tortosa,  and 
from  one  end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other  ? 
Denunciation.  Marquis  Alfonzo  and  the 
Prince  of  Viano,  your  cousins,  are  in  chains, 
and  sire,  that  bloodthirsty  knave  has  taken  by 
the  throat  the  Infant  of  Tudela.  Years  ago, 
under  the  reign  of  Don  Ramiro,  or  of  Donna 
Leonora,  every  Spanish  city  was  a  scene  of 
gayetyand  animation  ;  the  bells  rang  out  over 
a  dancing,  joyous  people.  But  to-day  there  is 
no  sound.  No  merry  laughter.  No  more 
luxury.  A  bouquet  is  an  object  of  suspicion. 
Terror,  dread  and  lamentation  everywhere, 
and  the  vast  Spanish  realm  is  like  the  dreary 
aftermath  of  a  great  festival.  O  king,  your 
forests  are  made  into  scaffolds,  and  the  sup- 
ply of  wood  ere  long  will  fail.  True  crimes 
and  false  crimes  are  confused,  and  anything  's 
enough  to  send  one  to  the  stake.     For  having 


seen  a  certain  person  passing,  you  are  his  con- 
federate. The  son  betrays  his  father,  and  the 
father  his  son.  Whoever  accidentally  knocks 
down  a  crucifix,  is  burned  alive.  A  word,  a 
gesture  are  rank  heresy.  Tliis  hateful  monk 
has  taken  Jesus  in  a  frenzy.  Everything  's  a 
crime.  To  muse,  to  swear  by  Solomon,  to 
have  the  air  of  talking  with  the  devil  'neath 
one's  breath,  to  bite  one's  nails,  to  go  bare- 
footed on  a  day  of  fast,  to  wed  a  wife  too 
youthful  or  too  old,  to  turn  a  dead  man's  face 
toward  the  wall,  to  fail  to  shun  all  those  who 
wear  a  leathern  thong  about  their  waists,  to 
use  a  tablecloth  upon  a  Sabbath  day,  to  drive 
his  ox  or  ass  forth  from  the  barn  on  Christ- 
mas day,  to  use  the  name  of  God  more  fre- 
quently than  that  of  Jesus,  or  to  lie  in  hiding, 
each  of  these  is  cause  for  sending  men  and 
women  to  the  stake.  To  follow  a  dead  body 
to  the  grave,  repeating  verses  as  you  go,  to 
sit  and  weep  in  darkness  or  behind  a  door,  to 
watch,  from  a  secluded,  quiet  spot,  the  rising 
of  the  first  star  of  the  night,  are  just  so  many 
crimes,  O  king,  the  fire  gleams,  ascends, 
consumes,  and  the  broad  sky  above  your  head 
grows  ruddier  and  more  ruddy,  sire,  with  the 
light  of  that  empurpled  dawn.  Your  subjects' 
blood  is  drained  from  you.  feoon  you  will 
have  no  soldiers  left  for  war.  Ere  long — 
surely  it  cannot  be  the  king  doth  realize  it, 
for  the  king  could  with  a  word  prevent  it  all, 
but  no  !  ere  long,  the  Holy  Office  will  have 
consigned  all  Spain  to  prison,  and  even  now 
the  people  have  well-nigh  forgotten  you. 

(He  points  to  the  gallery  at  the  back  of  the  stage 
and  the  curtain  drawn  across  it.  Gucho  listens 
attentively.) 

This  very  day,  O  king,  beneath  your  win- 
dow here,  the  stake,  a  fiery  mass  above  a 
heap  of  red-hot  embers,  will  pursue  its  purify- 
ing work,  and  there,  beneath  the  himgry  eyes 
of  the  confessor,  women  clad  in  flames  will 


2l8 


TOROUEMADA 


writhe  in  agony.  At  the  four  corners  stand 
four  statues,  four  black  prophetesses  facing 
the  four  winds  of  heaven,  built  of  hollow 
stone,  and  filled  with  living  men.  You  '11 
hear  the  roaring  of  those  hideous  colossi,  and 
see  the  flickering  flames  come  pouring  from 
their  mouths  ;  and  nothing  save  those  giants 
will  remain ;  your  people,  haggard-eyed  and 
all  agape  with  fear,  will  see  all  Spain,  your 
kingdoms  and  yourself  go  up  in  smoke  around 
those  four  appalling  phantoms.  For  all  light 
proceeds  from  the  vile  Quemadero.  And  you 
disappear,  O  king,  in  the  shadow  of  the 
executioner. 

(The   king   sinks   upon    a    folding-chair,   as   if    over- 
whelmed. ) 

THE  KING. 
All  this  is  to  the  profit  of  the  church. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

And  to  the  ruin  of  the  throne.     Castile  is 
covered  o'er  with  charnel-houses,  and  in  the 
distance  terror  utters  piercing  shrieks. 
( Approaching  the  king. ) 

In  vain  you  struggle.  You  are  taken.  Over 
Spain  is  spread  a  sombre  web,  through  which 
God  can  be  seen,  a  dimly  shining  star;  a 
frowning  net-work,  woven  upon  earth  by  Satan 
who  drew  the  fibres  one  by  one  from  great 
Jehovah's  side  ;  a  snare  wherein  tlie  wretched 
human  mind  is  lorn  to  shreds;  a  sort  of  vast 
rose-window  of  an  immeasurable  church, 
where  hell-fire  gleams  on  the  great  altar ; 
there  are  horror,  deathly  fright  and  darkness ; 
and  the  world  stares  aghast  at  the  grim  monster 
gnawing  at  its  vitals;  it  thinks  of  Baal  of  old 
who  strangled  it ;  to  grow  is  an  abuse,  to 
think  a  crime  ;  a  man  is  bold  to  live,  and 
merely  to  exist  is  perilous.  And  in  the  centre 
of  the  web  we  see  the  priest,  the  spider  with 
the  fly,  the  king. 


(The  king  hangs  his  head.     The  marquis  watches  him 
and  continues.) 

Certes,  it  is  a  subject  of  surprise  and  terror 
that  this  wretched  skein  of  cloisters,  regula- 
tions, dogmas,  vows,  could  make  a  web  to 
catch  an  eagle  in.  But  it  is  done.  The 
eagle  's  taken.  At  this  moment  his  wing  is 
barely  fluttering  in  the  mesh.  In  front  of 
you  the  missal  and  the  gospel  and  the  Bible 
rear  their  heads,  and  't  is  no  longer  possible 
for  you  to  carry  out  your  will ;  you  dare  not 
love  ;  nor  do  you  dare  to  reign.  The  kings 
of  old,  as  hard  and  stubborn  as  their  moun- 
tains, long  bearded  as  their  forests,  were  of 
sterner  stuff.  The  present,  far  more  than  the 
past,  is  vile  as  dust.  A  king  allows  a  woman 
to  enslave  him,  and  in  the  kindness  of  his 
heart  crawls  in  the  dust,  nor  even  tries  to 
roar.  There  is  no  longer  aught  upon  the 
earth  except  one  monk.  This  monk — Oh  ! 
how  doth  the  child  dare  be  born? — this  monk 
is  king,  he  has  you  'neath  his  sandals.  You, 
the  king  !  He  turns  his  key  upon  the  human 
heart ;  he  is  above  the  bishop  and  above  the 
abbess,  in  the  deacon's  eyes  and  in  the  nun's. 
He  conies,  the  law  slinks  out  of  sight,  the 
sceptre  bends  even  as  a  slender  reed,  the 
sword  is  terrified.  A  stupefying  glare  shoots 
from  his  piercing  eyes;  his  arm  is  universal 
empire,  and  man  his  target,  and  as  he  stoops, 
the  frowning  spy  of  God,  to  watch  the  world, 
his  shadow  covers  everything. 

(Looking  the  king  in  the  face.) 

Hereafter  history  will  say  :  "  That  was  the 
age  of  fire.  That  was  a  time  of  darkness  and 
of  slavery.  What  was  its  product?  ashes. 
To  the  sword  of  Pelagus,  the  fork  to  stir  the 
embers  of  the  stake  succeeded.  What  was 
the  king's  name?     'T  was  Torquemada." 

THE  KING  (rising). 
Marquis,    thou    liest    in    thy    throat !     His 
name   is  Ferdinand,   and   neither  monk   nor 


PART  ri—ACT  IT 


219 


pope  of  Rome  can  make  it  other  than  it  is,  or 
say  that  I,  the  tiger  and  the  lion,  am  not 
king !  And  I  will  prove  with  headless  bodies 
what  I  say.  Go  thou,  collect  a  party  of 
armed  men,  march  straightway  to  the  con- 
vent of  th'  Assinnption,  seize  the  Infanta, 
trample  out  all  op[)Osition  ;  such  is  my 
pleasure  !  I  propose  that  everyone  shall  bow 
and  cringe  and  slink  away  as  if  my  face 
appeared  before  them  unexpectedly  !  Here  is 
the  written  order. 

(He  goes  to  the  table,  takes  a  pen   and   a  sheet  of 
parchment,  and  writes  rapidly.) 

-"In  the  law's  name,  submit.  That  which 
the  marquis  does  is  done  by  the  king's  com- 
mand." 

(He  signs  and  hands  the  parchment  to  the  marquis.) 
If  anyone  resists,  then  smite,  strike  down, 
burn,  crush,  exterminate,  and  then  pass  on, 
and  look  to  it  that,  on  the  spot  where  once 
that  cursed  convent  stood,  there  be  not  pres- 
ently one  living  being,  or    one  stone  upon 

another  ! 

(Gncho  listens  with  renewed  attention.) 

THE  MARQUIS. 
If  some  monk  .   .   .  ? 

THE  KING. 
To  death  with  him  ! 

THE  M.A.RQUIS. 
Or  .soldier  .   .   .  ? 

THE  KING. 
Cast  him  into  prison.    Take  a  hundred  cut- 
throats of  my  Moorish   guard.      'T   will    be 
enough  to  force  a  cloister. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 

Aye,  or  even  two. 

(Aloud.) 

Although  proceeding  from  the  king,  this  is 

a  bold  venture. 

THE  KING. 
Go. 


THE  MARQUIS. 
W'lien   the   Infanta  's  in  my  hands,  I  must 
conceal  her. 

THE  KING. 
Surely. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
Where? 

THE  KING. 

In  my  private  park,  a  lonely  and  secluded 
spot.  Thou  knowest  it?  I  leave  Seville 
to-night. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

I  know  it.     For  one  day. 

THE  KING. 
I  go  to  Triana.     On  my  return  I  wish  to 
find  the  Infanta  .   .   . 

THE  MARQUIS. 
In  the  private  park. 

THE  KING. 
There  I  am  master. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
But  the  key? 
(The  king  goes  to  the  credence  and  opens  a  drawer.) 

THE  KING. 

1  have  two  keys,  for  I  alone  go  thither. 

(He  takes  two  keys  from  the  drawer,  and  hands  one  of 
them  to  the  marquis.) 

One  of  them  I  give  to  thee. 

( He  replaces  the  other  key  in  the  drawer,  which  he 
closes.  Gucho,  the  king's  hack  being  turned,  crawls 
under  the  credence,  opens  the  drawer  and  takes  out 
the  key. ) 

GUCHO  (aside). 

1  take  the  other. 

(He  closes  the  drawer  and  puts  the  key  in  his  pocket.) 

THE  KING. 
Ah,  yes  !  these  monks  are  powerful  !     Ah, 
yes !    these   priests    are  miglity,    too  !      And 
Torquemada  reigns  !     We  '11  see. 


230 


TORQUEMADA 


THE  VOICE  OF  AN  USHER  (outside,  announcing 
tlie  queen). 

Her  Majesty,  the  queen. 

(Enters  tlie  queen,  in  black  jet,  tlie  royal  tiara  on  her 
head.  She  makes  a  profound  reverence  to  the  king, 
who  replies  with  a  low  bow,  without  removing  his 
hat.) 

(The  queen  goes  to  one  of  the  arm-chairs  at  the  end  of 
the  table  and  seats  herself  therein ;  after  which  she 
remains  motionless  as  if  she  neither  saw  nor  heard 
anything. ) 

(The  king  and  queen  both  have  rosaries  hanging  at 
their  waists.) 

THE  KING  (in  an  undertone  to  the  marquis). 

Be  prompt.     Speed  is  the  first  essential  of 

success.     Go,  marquis.     Do  what  I  bid  thee. 

(Enters  the   Duke  d'Alava.     He   walks  toward  the 
king.) 

What  is  thy  errand,  Duke  d'Alava? 

DUKE  D'ALAVA. 
The   deputies  of  the  Jews  who  have  been 
banished   from   your  realm  crave  leave,  sire 
and   madanie,  to   throw   themselves  at   your 
Majesties'  feet. 


THE  KING. 
Admit  them. 

(Exit  the  duke.) 
(In  an  undertone  to  the  marquis.) 
Hasten  now,  and  seize  the  Infanta.     Go  at 
once  to  the  Assumption  convent. 

THE  MARQUIS  (aside). 
Then  to  Saint  Anthony's. 


Begone ! 
But  .  .  . 
What? 


THE  KING. 

THE  MARQUIS. 

THE  KING. 


? 


THE  MARQUIS. 
Suppose  the  Grand  Inquisitor  . 

THE  KING. 

That  monk  !     He  is  the  earthworm,  I  the 

dragon. 

( He  waves  his  hand  imperiously  to  the  marquis.  The 
marquis  bows  and  goes  out  by  the  secret  door  in  the 
hangings.  The  king  takes  his  seat  in  the  unoccupied 
chair,  opposite  the  queen. ) 

(Enter  the  Jews.) 


PART  II— ACT  II 


221 


SCENE   III 

THE  KING,  THE  QUEEN,  THE  JEWS. 


(Through  the  door  at  the  back,  which  is  thrown  wide 
open,  pours  in  a  frightened,  half-clad  multitude 
between  two  rows  of  halberdiers  and  pikemea.  They 
are  the  Jew  deputies,  men,  women  and  children,  all 
coveFed  with  dirt  and  dressed  in  rags,  barefooted, 
with  the  rope  around  their  necks  ;  some  are  mutilated 
and  crippled  by  torture  and  drag  themselves  along  on 
their  stumps  or  on  crutches ;  others,  whose  eyes  have 
been  put  out,  are  led  by  children.  At  their  head  is 
the  Chief  Rabbi,  Moses- Ben- Habib.  All  have  the 
yellow  shield  over  their  tattered  garments. ) 

(At  some  little  distance  from  the  table  the  rabbi  halts 

and  kneels.  All  those  behind  him  follow  his  example. 

The  older  men  beat  their  heads  upon  the  floor. ) 
(Neither  the  king  nor   queen    looks  at  them.     Their 

eyes  seem  to  be   gazing  abstractedly  over  all  their 

heads.) 

MOSES-BEN-HABIB  (kneeling). 
Your  Majesties  of  Aragon,  and  of  Castile, — 
king,  queen  !  our  master  and  our  mistress,  we, 
your  trembling  subjects,  are  in  sore  distress  ; 
barefooted,  ropes  about  our  necks,  we  pray  to 
God  and  you  ;  and,  living  in  death's  shadow, 
some  of  us  being  doomed  to  die  by  fire,  and 
all  the  poor  remainder,  wornen  and  old  men, 
being  hunted  from  the  realm,  we  bring  our 
plaint  to  you,  O  king  and  queen,  beneath  the 
all-seeing  eye  of  Him  who  sits  in  heaven. 
Your  Majesties,  your  edicts  pour  upon  us  in 
hot  haste,  we  weep,  our  fathers'  bones  do 
quiver,  and  the  peaceful  sepulchre  doth  trem- 
ble at  your  deeds.  Have  pity.  Ours  are 
faithful  and  submissive  hearts  ;  we  live  retired 
in  our  modest  houses,  humble  and  alone ;  our 
laws  are  strict  and  simple,  so  that  a  child 
might  write  thein  down.    The  Jew  doth  never 


sing  and  never  laugh.  Tribute  we  pay,  how- 
ever great  the  sum.  Men  kick  us  as  we  lie 
upon  the  ground  ;  we're  like  the  clothing  of  a 
murdered  man.  Glory  to  God  !  But  must  it 
be  that,  with  the  new-born  babe,  the  nursing 
infant  and  the  child  but  newly  weaned,  naked, 
driving  his  0-\  and  dog  and  goat  before  him, 
Israel  must  fly,  and  scatter  to  all  quarters  of 
the  earth  ?  That  we  shall  cease  to  be  a  nation 
to  become  mere  wanderers?  Nay,  king,  drive 
us  not  forth  with  pikes,  and  God  will  throw 
the  golden  gates  of  heaven  open  to  you. 
Have  compassion  on  us.  We  are  crushed. 
We  shall  no  more  behold  our  trees  and  fields 
of  grain  !  The  mother's  breasts  will  cease  to 
give  forth  milk  !  The  wild  beasts  in  the  woods 
live  with  their  mates  in  peace,  the  birds  sleep 
tranquilly  beneath  the  waving  branches,  and 
the  roe  is  left  to  nurse  her  little  ones  un- 
troubled :  pray  permit  us  to  live  likewise,  in 
our  caverns,  'neath  our  wretched  roofs,  almost 
like  prisons,  and  we  almost  slaves,  but  near 
our  fathers'  ashes ;  deign  to  suffer  us  beneath 
your  feet  which  we  bathe  with  our  tears !  Ah 
me  !  what  misery  to  be  dispersed  in  far  off 
lands  !  Permit  us  still  to  drink  at  our  own 
springs  and  live  among  our  fields,  and  you  will 
prosper  !  Woe  is  me  !  we  wring  our  hands  in 
our  despair  !  O  king,  spare  us  the  agony  of 
banishment,  of  bitter,  endless,  everlasting 
solitude!  Leave  us  our  native  land,  our 
native  sky  !     The  bread  whereon  one  weeps 


223 


TORQUEMADA 


while  eating  it  is  clianged  to  gall.  If  we  are 
ashes,  be  not  you  the  wind. 

(Pointing  to  the  gold  upon  the  table.) 

Behold  our  ransom.  Vouchsafe  to  accept  it. 
O  protect  us,  king  and  queen.  See  our 
despair.  Stretch  out  your  wings  above  us,  not 
as  evil  angels,  but  as  kind  and  tender-hearted 
angels,  for  the  black  wing  and  the  white  wing 
cast  not  the  same  shadow.  Oh,  revoke  your 
edict.  We  implore  you  by  your  consecrated 
ancestors,  as  grand  as  lions,  by  the  tonibs  of 
all  the  kings  and  queens,  deep  minds,  and 
filled  with  radiant  light ;  we  place  our  hearts, 
O  rulers  of  your  fellow-men,  our  prayers,  our 
lamentation  in  the  hands  of  your  Infanta,  of 
the  child  Joanna,  as  fresh  and  innocent  as 
the  wild  strawberry  whereon  the  bee  doth 
light.     King,  queen,  have  pity ! 


(A  moment  of  silence.  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  remain 
absolutely  motionless,  they  do  not  even  turn  their 
eyes.  The  Duke  d'Alava,  who  stands  with  drawn 
sword  in  front  of  the  table,  touches  the  chief  rabbi 
on  the  shoulder  with  the  flat  of  his  sword.  The 
rabbi  rises  to  his  feet  and  he  and  all  the  Jews  retire 
with  bent  heads,  walliing  backward.  The  guards 
form  in  line  and  hustle  them  off  the  stage.  The  door 
remains  open  after  they  have  gone. ) 

(The  king  motions  to  the  Duke  d'Alava,  who  goes 
to  him.) 

THE  KING  (to  the  duke). 
The  queen  and  I  desire  to  consult  in  private 
touching  the  decree.  If  anyone  comes  hither, 
though  it  were  a  prince,  arrest  him,  duke !  I 
will  cut  off  the  head  of  any  man  who  dares  to 
enter.    Close  the  door  and  guard  the  corridor. 

(The  duke  lowers  his  sword,  bows,  puts  up  his  sword 
and  retires.  The  door  closes.  The  king  and  queen 
remain  alone.) 

(During  this  scene  Gucho  has  disappeared  under  the 
table  where  he  is  hiding. ) 


PART  II— ACT  II 


223 


SCENE   IV 

THE  KING,  THE  QUEEN;   GUCHO,  under  the  table. 


(The  king  and  queen  gaze  earnestly  at  each  other  with- 
out speaking.  Absolute  silence.  At  last  the  queen 
lowers  her  eyes  and  looks  at  the  money  on  the 
table.) 

THE  QUEEN. 

Thirty  thousand  golden  marks. 

THE  KING. 
Thirty  thousand  golden  marks. 

THE  QUEEN. 

But  they  're  a  race  accursed,  who  watch  the 

planets. 

THE  KING. 

Thirty  thousand  golden  marks  make  six 
hundred  thousand  piasters,  which  make  twenty 
million  sequins. 

THE  QUEEN. 
Sequins  ? 

THE  KING. 
Sequins,  which,  when  changed  to  African 
bezants,     would    make    the    wherewithal    to 
freight  a  galley  ! 

THE  QUEEN. 
True,  but  the  Jew  doth  make  himself  invisi- 
ble, and  light  himself  by  setting  fire  to  a  dead 
child's  fingers. 

THE  KING. 
Doubtless. 

THE   QUEEN. 
It  would  fill  a  galley  ? 


THE  KING. 


To  the  brim. 


THE  QUEEN. 
With  bezants? 

THE  KING. 
Aye,  with  bezants.     And  we  should  have 
twice  the  weight  in  silver  douros. 

THE  QUEEN. 

My  mind  is   ill   at  ease.     My  lord,  let  us 

repeat  a  pater. 

( She  takes  her  rosary.    A  pause.    The  king  touches  the 
piles  of  gold  and  moves  them  about.) 

THE  KING  (under  his  breath). 

With  this  gold  I  could  prosecute  the  war  at 
Boabdil  with  ease. 

THE  QUEEN  (still  telling  her  beads). 
My  lord,  should  I  die  first,  give  me  your 
oath  that  you  will  not  remarry. 

THE  KING  (under  his  breath). 
With  this  gold  the  war  at  Boabdil  .  .  . 

THE   QUEEN. 
Say,  will  you  swear  ? 

THE  KING. 
Swear  what  ?    Of  course. 

(Pensively.) 

This  gold  would  all  the  cost  defray,  yes,  all. 

And  I  should  have  Grenada, — a  bright  pearl 

for  our  diadem. 

(The  queen,  having  finished  her  prayer,  lays  her  rosary 
on  the  table.) 


224 


TORQUEMADA 


THE  QUEEN. 
My  lord,  let  us  e'en  take  the  gold,  and  none 

the  less  expel  the  Jews,  whom  I  cannot  accept 

as  subjects. 

(The  king  raises  his  head.     The  queen  repeats.) 
Let  US  expel  the  Jews  and  keep  their  money. 

THE  KING. 
I    had    thought   upon  it.      But  that  course 
might  well  discourage  others. 

THE  QUEEN  (looking  at  the  gold). 

Thirty  thousand   golden   crowns !   in  your 
hands  .   .   . 

THE  KING. 
Nay,  in  yours. 

THE  QUEEN. 
Could  we  ask  more  ? 

THE  KING. 
Anon. 

( He  handles  the  piles  of  gold.) 

I  could  retake  Grenada  from  the  base-born 

bastard  Moor.     We  might  allow  the  Jews  to 

stay  but  drive  away  the  Moors. 

THE  QUEEN  (hesitating). 
True. 

THE  KING. 

'T  is  the  law  of  compensation. 


THE  QUEEN. 
A  choice  between  two  Sodoms. 

THE  KING. 
Do  we  accept  the  money  ? 


THE  QUEEN. 


Yes. 


THE  KING. 

(He  takes  a  pen,  and   writes  upon  a  piece  of  vellum, 
consulting  the  queen  with  a  glance.) 

'T  is  well.  First,  the  edict  is  revoked,  that 
banishes  that  flock  of  miscreants,  the  Jews, 
and  separates  them  from  the  Spanish  people ; 
next  the  auto-da-fe  appointed  for  to-day  for- 
bidden to  take  place  ;  lastly,  an  order  to  release 
all  the  Jew  prisoners. 

(The  king  signs,  pushes  the  vellum  toward  the  queen 
and  passes  the  pen  to  her. ) 

THE  QUEEN  (taking  the  pen). 

'T  is  said. 

(As  the  queen  is  about  to  sign  the  great   door  opens 
noisily.) 

(The  king  and  queen  turn  about  in  amazement.) 

(Gucho  puts  out  his  head.) 

(Torquemada  appears  in  the  doorway  at  the  top  of  the 
steps,  in  his  Dominican's  frock,  an  iron  crucifix  in 
his  hand. ) 


PART  II— ACT  // 


225 


SCENE   V 

THE  KINO,  THE  QUEEN,  TORQUEMADA. 


(Torquemada  looks  neither  at  the  king  nor  the  queen. 
He  has  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  crucifix.) 

TORQUEMADA. 
For   thirty  silver   pieces   Judas   sold   thee. 
This   king  and   queen  are   on    the    point   of 
selling  thee  for  thirty  thousand  golden  crowns. 

THE  QUEEN. 
Great  Heaven  ! 

TORQUEMADA  (throwing  the  crucifix  upon  the  piles 
of  crowns). 

Come,  Jews,  and  take  him  ! 

THE  QUEEN. 
Father  ! 

TORQUEMADA. 

Trinm])h,  Jews !   as  it  is  written  !   for  this 
king  and  queen  deliver  Jesus  Christ  to  you. 


My  father  \ 


THE  QUEEN. 


TORQUEMADA  (looking  them  both  in  the  face). 
Be  accursed,  O  king  !     Be  thou  accursed, 
O  queen  ! 

THE  QUEEN. 
Mercy ! 

TORQUEMADA  (stretching  his  arm  over  their  heads ). 

To  your  knees  ! 

(The  queen  falls  on  her  knees.     The  king  hesitates, 
shuddering. ) 

Both ! 

(The  king  falls  on  his  knees.) 
(Pointing  to  Isabella.) 
Here  the  queen. 


(Pointing  to  Ferdinand.) 
And  there  the  king.   A  heap  of  gold  between. 
Ah  !  you  are  king  and  queen  ! 

(He  seizes  the  crucifix  and  raises  it  above  his  head.) 
Behold   your  God.      I  take  you   in  tlie   act. 
Bow  down  and  kiss  the  ground. 

(The  queen  prostrates  herself.) 

THE  QUEEN. 
Mercy  ! 

TORQUEMADA. 

O  horror  ! 

THE  QUEEN. 

Father,  give  us  absolution  ! 

TORQUEMAD.\. 
Monstrotis  insolence  !  And  so — 't  is  thy 
reign.  Antichrist ! — the  Jews  are  to  be  recon- 
ciled, the  auto-da-fe  proscribed.  The  saving 
stake  will  not  be  set  alight.  These  sovereigns, 
forsooth,  say  no.  And  so  this  wretched  toy, 
the  sceptre,  dares  to  touch  the  cross  !  This 
knave,  an  earthly  prince,  dares  to  be  deaf  to 
what  the  Christ  hath  said  !  'T  is  time  that  I 
should  speak  to  you  and  warn  you.  The  Holy 
Office  hath  full  power  over  you.  From  its 
decrees  the  pope  alone  's  e-xemjit,  but  kings 
are  not.  While  you  are  sleeping,  while  you 
sit  at  meat,  at  any  hour  our  banner  hath  the 
right  to  enter  your  abode,  bringing  its  stern 
and  melancholy  message.  The  kings,  false 
gods,  have  ever  much  employed  the  thunder, 
and    Heaven    loves    them    not.     Your   laws, 


226 


TORQUEMADA 


O  princes,  are  the  vain  and  empty  ones,  and 
ours  the  true.  We  are  the  wheat  and  you  the 
tares.  Some  day  the  scythe  will  come  to  mow 
the  mighty  harvest  !  Kings,  we  undergo  your 
yoke,  but  we  denounce  you.  Day  after  day 
we  cast  your  names  into  the  dark  abode  of 
mystery,  where  secret,  solitary  punishment 
awaits  you  !  With  dead  kings'  skulls  are  the 
dark  places  paved.  Aha  !  you  think  that  you 
are  strong  because  your  camps  are  filled  with 
soldiers  and  your  ports  with  sails.  God  medi- 
tates, keen-eyed,  among  the  stars.  So  tremble  ! 

THE  QUEEN. 
Mercy ! 

THE  KING  (rising). 
Sir  Inquisitor,  the  king  and  queen,  with 
contrite  hearts  and  making  full  profession  of 
their  faith,  do  purpose  to  repair  the  ill  they 
were  about  to  do.  The  Jews  shall  be  expelled, 
and,  father,  we  permit  you  and  the  Holy 
Office,  and  your  consecrated  priests  to  light 
the  fires  instantly. 

TORQUEMADA. 

Dost  think  that  I  have  waited  ? 

(He  descends  the  three  steps,  goes  to  the  gallery  at 
the  back  of  the  stage  and  violently  pulls  the  curtain 
aside. ) 

Look. 

(Night  is  beginning  to  fall.  Beyond  the  gallery  at  the 
back  of  the  stage,  a  large  space  entirely  open,  can 
be  seen  the  square  of  the  Trablada  filled  with  people. 
In  the  centre  of  the  square  is  the  Quemadero,  a 
huge  structure  bristling  with  flames  and  filled  with 
piles  of  fagots  and  Jpright  posts,  and  with  victims 
in  san  benitos,  who  can  be  indistinctly  seen  through 
the  smoke.  Large  vessels  filled  with  pitch  and  tar 
are  attached  to  the  tops  of  the  posts,  and  empty 
themselves  in  fiery  streams  upon  the  heads  of  the 
sufferers.  Women  stripped  naked  by  the  flame  are 
burning,  tied  to  iron  stakes.  Loud  shrieks  are  heard. 
At  the  four  corners  of  the  Quemadero  are  seen  the 
four  gigantic  statues,  called  the  Four  Evangelists, 
reddened  by  the  glare.  They  have  holes  and  cracks 
through  which  heads  are  frantically  thrust  and  wav- 
ing arms  which  seem  like  living  fire-brands.  Torture 
and  fire  everywhere. ) 


(The  king  and  queen  look  on  aghast.  Gucho,  under 
the  table,  stretches  his  neck  and  tries  to  see.  Tor- 
quemada  feasts  his  eyes  contemplatively  upon  the 
Quemadero.) 

TORQUEMADA. 
O  happy  day,  O  joy,  O  glory  !  Now  the 
awe-inspiring  and  majestic  clemency  soars 
heavenward  in  flame  !  Deliverance  forever  ! 
Be  absolved,  ye  damned !  The  stake  on 
earth  extinguishes  the  flames  of  hell  beneath. 
Be  blessed,  O  thou  by  whom  the  soul  ascends 
to  happiness,  thou  stake,  the  glory  of  the  fire 
whereof  hell  is  the  shame,  the  path  that  leads 
to  the  resplendent  road,  the  gate  of  Paradise 
reopened  to  the  human  race,  sweet,  ardent 
pity  ceaselessly  caressing,  mysterious  redemp- 
tion of  the  slaves  of  darkness,  auto-da-fe ! 
Forgiveness,  grace,  light,  fire,  life,  bedazzling 
glory  of  the  face  of  God  !  Oh  !  the  deathless 
parting  and  the  souls  redeemed !  Jews, 
unbelievers,  sinners,  O  my  cherished  flock, 
with  a  brief  period  of  torture  here  you 
purchase  happiness  unending  ;  men  are 
accursed  no  more,  and  exile  is  unknown. 
Salvation  is  secured  to  all  in  heaven.  Love 
awakes,  and  this  its  triumph,  this  its  miracle  ! 
What  ecstasy  !  to  go  by  the  straight  path  to 
heaven  !  to  fall  not  by  the  wayside  ! 

(Shrieks  from  the  flames.) 
Hear  you  Satan  roar  to  see  them  fly  ?  May 
the  eternal  monster  weep  forever  in  the  eternal 
slough  !  With  mine  own  hands  I  closed  the 
huge  red  door.  Oh  !  how  he  gnashed  his 
teeth  when  I  made  fast  the  two  grim  wings 
thereof.  Forever,  never !  Frowning  darkly, 
he  remained  behind  the  gloomy  wall. 

(He  looks  at  the  sky.) 
Oh !  I  have  poured  a  healing  balm  upon 
the  ghastly  wound  of  darkness.  Paradise  was 
suffering,  and  heaven  had  that  ulcer  in  its  side, 
a  blazing,  bloody  hell  ;  I  poured  the  kindlier, 
healing  flame  upon   this  blazing  hell,  and  in 


PART  II— ACT  II 


227 


the  boundless  azure  I  can  see  the  scar.  It  was 
the  wound  in  thy  dear  side,  O  Christ ! 
Hosanna !  the  wound  that  seemed  incurable  is 
cured.  No  more  hell-fire.  'T  is  quenched. 
The  springs  of  sorrow  have  run  dry. 
( He  looks  at  the  Quemadero. ) 

O  rubies  of  the  furnace !  living  embers ! 
precious  stones.  Blaze,  fire-brands !  burn, 
coals  !  hiss  on,  O  sovereign  fire  !  shine  forth, 
O  pyre,  gorgeous  casket  filled  with  sparks 
soon  to  become  bright  stars !  Souls  issue 
from  their  bodies  as  from  behind  a  veil,  and 
happiness  emerges  from  the  bath  of  torture  ! 
Splendor !  fiery  magnificence !  cascades  of 
flame  !  Satan,  my  foe,  what  sayest  thou? 
(In  an  ecstasy  of  excitement.) 

O  fire,  that  dost  purge  away  all  evil  stains 
with  thy  fierce  flame  !  A  supreme  transfigura- 
tion !  act  of  faith  !  We  both  are  'neath  God's 
eyes,  Satan  and  I.  Fork-bearers  both.  Both 
rulers  of  the  flames.  He  luring  mortals  to 
destruction,  I  redeeming  souls ;  both  execu- 
tioners, using  like  means,  whereby  he  peoples 
hell,  I  heaven,  whereby  he  doth  evil,  I  do 
good ;  he  's  in  the  sewer,  I  am  in  the  temple. 
And  the  flickering  shadows  gaze  upon  us  from 
the  tomb. 

( He  turns  toward  the  victims. ) 

Ah !  but  for  me  you  had  been  lost,  my  well- 
beloved  !  The  pool  of  fire  purifies  you  while 
it  burns.  You  curse  me  for  the  moment, 
children  !  but,  ere  long,  when  you  are  con- 
scious  what    you    have    escaped,    then    you 


will  thank  me  ;  for  I  have  smitten  even  as 
Michael  the  Archangel ;  the  white  seraphim, 
leaning  to  look  into  the  sulphurous  pit,  revile 
the  hideous  abortion  in  its  depths ;  your  roars 
of  hatred,  when  they  reach  the  light,  will 
change  to  stammering  amazement,  ending  in 
hymns  of  love  !  Ah  me  !  how  have  I  suffered 
to  see  you  in  the  torture-chamber,  shrieking, 
■weeping,  writhing  in  the  brazen  vise's  jaws, 
seared  by  the  red-hot  iron  !  Freed  at  last ! 
depart  !  fly  upward  !  enter  into  Paradise  ! 

(He  stoops  as  if  looking  beneath  the  ground.) 

No,  thou  shalt  have  no  more  immortal  souls  ! 

(He  stands  erect.) 
God  grants  us  the  support  we  asked,  and 
man  is  rescued  from  the  pit  of  hell.  Begone, 
begone  !  off"  through  the  scorching  darkness 
and  the  great  winged  flames,  the  smoke 
departing  wafts  on  high  the  living  spirit  saved 
from  the  dead  flesh  !  All  human  crime  of  the 
old  days  is  purged  away  ;  one  had  his  venial 
fault,  another  had  his  sin,  but,  fault  or  sin, 
each  soul  had  its  own  monster  in  itself,  dim- 
ming its  light  and  gnawing  at  its  wing ;  the 
angel  fell  a  victim  to  the  devil.  Now,  the 
flames  are  everywhere,  and  the  divine  and 
glorious  heritage  is  parceled  out  in  Jesus' 
presence  in  the  bright  light  of  the  tomb.  Ye 
dragons,  fall  as  ashes  to  the  grounds;  fly 
heavenward,  ye  doves!  You,  who  were  in 
the  grasp  of  hell,  are  free,  free,  free  !  Ascend 
from  darkness  to  the  light  of  day.  Put  on 
thine  immortality  1 


ACT   THIRD 


It  is  night. 

A  terrace  of  the  private  park,  Huerto  del  Rey,  at  Seville. 

The  terrace  is  of  great  width ;  at  the  right  and  left  are  avenues  of  trees.  At  the  back  of  the  stage  the 
terrace  ends  at  a  staircase,  of  which  the  steps  cannot  be  seen  ;  it  gives  access  to  the  terrace  from  the  garden 
below.  The  staircase  runs  the  whole  length  of  the  terrace.  Those  persons  who  ascend  it  show  their  heads 
first,  then  their  bodies,  etc.,  until  they  reach  the  level  of  the  terrace. 

On  the  terrace  there  is  a  marble  bench. 

The  garden  beyond  the  terrace  is  in  darkness.     Mountains  in  the  background.    Solitude. 

The  moon  rises  during  the  act. 


SCENE   I 

TORQUEMADA,  GUCHO. 


(They  enter  from  the  avenue  of  trees  at  the  right,  Gucho 
acting  as  guide  to  Torquemada.  Gucho  holds  his 
two  baubles  against  his  breast  with  one  hand,  and 
with  the  other  hands  a  key  to  Torquemada.) 

GUCHO. 
Vouchsafe,  monsenor,  to  remember  that 
't  is  I  who  hand  to  you  the  key  of  the  king's 
private  park,  I,  Gucho,  fool  to  the  said  king, 
our  lord.  What  crime  's  to  be  committed 
here?     I  cannot  say.     I  do  not  know  myself. 


Methinks  't  is  better  that  you  should  be  here 
to  see  with  your  own  eyes  all  that  takes  place. 
The  sacred  privileges  of  the  convent  are 
involved,  likewise  a  maiden,  whom  the  king 
would  take  by  force,  although  she  has  been, 
by  her  family,  betrothed  to  her  young  cousin  ; 
thus  much  and  no  more  do  I  know  of  this 
wicked  plot.  I  am  the  king's  fool.  My  duty 
is  to  make  him  laugh. 

(Torquemada  takes  the  key.) 
229 


230 


TORQUEMADA 


(Aside.) 

Denunciation  is  a  shameful  thing;  but  to 
be  roasted  is  far  worse.  My  choice  is  made. 
Good-night.  I  am  not  blessed  with  the  good 
luck  to  shine  in  an  auto-da-fe.  I  '11  shine  as 
a  keen  blade,  not  as  a  candle.  Question. 
At  this  hour  with  whom  do  I  keep  faith  ? 
Myself.  And  that  's  enough.  You  idiot,  who 
fancied  me  a  hero,  a  bold,  slashing,  wayward 
spark,  a  martyr  craving  death,  were  much 
mistaken.  What  will  happen  here?  I  wash 
my  paws  of  it.  If  I  should  burn,  the  king 
would  remain  cold.  This  worthy  graybeard 
here  has  but  to  raise  his  finger  and  you  '11  see 
his  Majesty  fall  flat  upon  his  belly.  Therefore 
I  denounce.  What  matter  !  I  must  think  of 
me  and  no  one  else,  deuce  take  it !  I  with- 
draw my  finger  from  the  pie.     And  I  am  off. 

TORQUEMADA  (gazing  at  the  key,  aside). 
This  king  hath   hardly  been  absolved  ere 
he  begins  again.     A  bad  man  and  a  coward. 


(Gucho  has  gone  to  the  further  side  of  the  terrace.  He 
glances  down  into  the  dark  garden.) 

GUCHO  (aside). 
Yonder  I  see  a  group  beneath  a  tree. 
Methinks  they  mean  to  come  up  hither  by  the 
inarble  staircase.  There  are  three !  Why 
three  ?  But  never  mind  that  why,  let  me 
escape  scot-free,  and  everything  may  go  to 
pieces  after  me ! 

TORQUEMADA  (aside,  looking  toward  the  garden). 
This  is  the  private  park.     The  hiding  place 
of  vice. 
(He  walks  slowly  into  the  avenue  of  trees  at  the  left.) 

GUCHO  (aside,  looking  toward  the  stairs). 

They  come.     Let  us  be  off. 

(He  goes  out  as  he  came  on.  The  Marquis  de  Fuentel 
comes  first  up  the  stairs,  followed  by  Don  Sancho 
and  Donna  Rosa  in  novices'  costumes  as  in  the  first 
act.  The  marquis  leads  the  way,  with  his  finger  on 
his  lips,  looking  cautiously  about.) 


PART  II— ACT  HI 


231 


SCENE   II 

MARQUIS  DE  FUENTEL,  DON  SANCHO,  DONNA   ROSA. 


THE  MARQUIS. 
Your  novice  costumes  would  be  dangerous, 
if  it  were  light.  But  this  is  a  deserted  spot, 
't  is  dark  and  no  one  sees  us.  Ah  !  my  God  ! 
you  're  free  at  last.  No  one  suspects  that  you 
are  here ;  I  took  a  less  direct  road  than  the 
usual  one  and  no  one  followed  me ;  I  sent  away 
the  people  who  went  with  me  to  the  convent, 
but  as  yet  nothing  is  done,  and  I  am  fearful. 
We  must  at  once  procure  horses  and  clothing, 
then  take  flight.  We  have  until  to-morrow 
only  to  consider. 

(Looking  into  the  solitary  avenues.) 

I  have  made  the  gate  secure.  There  is  no 
risk.  The  king  alone  can  enter  here,  and  he 
is  absent. 

(To  Don  Sancho. ) 
Prince,  raadame,  rely  on  me.  The  diffi- 
culties to  be  overcome  ere  I  can  hope  to  liber- 
ate you  from  this  place  are  most  appalling, 
but  I  am  determined,  and  I  feel  my  strength 
wax  greater  in  the  face  of  danger.  My  whole 
life  is  dedicated  to  you.  The  convent  left 
behind,  that  is  the  first  step  ;  the  second  to 
leave  Spain  behind.  I  lack  not  an  inventive 
mind,  but  how,  alas  !  are  we  to  pass  the  French 
frontier?  This  Torquemada  is  on  guard,  he 
has  all  Spain  within  his  grasp,  and  rises  higher 
as  the  king  sinks  lower.  I  have  forced  two 
convents.  Soon  the  Grand  Inquisitor  will  be 
upon  my  track.    As  yet  no  one  disturbs  us  here. 


But  we  must  find  another  hiding-place  ere 
dawn.  The  king  may  come.  Ah!  what  to  do? 
Where  find  some  one  who  will  consent  to 
shelter  you  and  save  you  ?  We  must  have 
recourse  to  some  monk.  They  are  omni]jotent. 
I  go  to  seek  the  man  we  need.  But  they  are 
traitors.  Now  and  then  a  priest  sells  those 
who  've  purchased  him.  How  ardently  I 
wish  that  you  were  safe  in  France.  I  have 
another  reason  for  anxiety,  concerning  which 
I  cannot  hold  my  peace ;  't  is  this :  this 
private  park,  secluded  as  it  is,  is  near  the 
palace  of  the  Holy  Office — so  near,  in  truth, 
that  its  wall  is  adjacent  to  the  prison  wall.  I 
leave  you  for  a  moment.  To  fly  or  die 
together  ?  Even  so  !  I  go  to  seek  a  place  of 
shelter.  Ah  !  I  am  afraid.  However,  now 
you  are  alive.     My  blessing  on  you. 

DON  SANCHO. 
We  owe  all  to  you  ! 

THE    MARQUIS. 
Ah  !   my  poor  outcasts,  we  must  find  some 
method  to  elude  pursuit.     Await  me  here. 

DON  SANCHO. 
How  shall  we  thank  you  ?     Tell  us  that. 

THE  MARQUIS. 
By  being  happy. 

(Exit  by  the  same  ro.ad  that  Gucho  followed.) 


232 


TORQUEMADA 


SCENE    III 

DON  SANCHO,  DONNA  ROSA. 


DON  SANCHO. 
Ah  me  !    1  fear  I  know  not  what.     To  see 
thee  once  again  is  heaven.     But  to  tremble 
for  thee — O  what  misery  ! 

DONNA  ROSA. 
God  reunites  us,  God  will  rescue  us. 

(She  gazes  at  him  ecstatically.) 

I  love  thee ! 

(They  throw  themselves  madly  into  each  other's  arms.) 

DON  SANCHO  (gazing  into  the  darkness  overhead). 
Oh  !  will  not  some  blest  angel  come  from 
yon  distant,  starry  sky  and  shield  thee  in  the 
shadow  of  his  wings  ?  Are  there  no  angels 
left  in  heaven,  or  have  the  angels  lost  their 
wings,  alas? 


DONNA  ROSA. 
We  have  a  friend,  dear,  faithful  man  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
Alas  !     he    is     himself    in    deadly    fear. 
Danger  's  on  every  side. 

(Torquemada  appears,  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees.  He  hears  these  last  words.  He  looks  and 
listens.  He  gazes  at  Don  Sancho  and  Donna  Rosa 
in  the  half-light  with  increasing  surprise.  Neither 
of  them  sees  him.  Don  Sancho  takes  Donna  Rosa's 
hand  and  raises  his  eyes  to  heaven.) 

Oh  !  who  will  come  and   offer  thee  protec- 
tion ? 

TORQUEMADA. 
I. 

(Both  turn  in  utter  amazement.) 


PART  II— ACT  III 


233 


SCENE   IV 

DON  SANCHO,  DONNA  ROSA,  TORQUEMADA. 


TORQUEMADA. 
I  recognize  you. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
'T  is  the  old  monk  ! 

TORQUEMADA. 
I  am  the  man,  condemned  to  death  by 
Sodom,  smitten  by  Gomorrha,  to  whom  you, 
two  stranger  children,  did  bear  aid.  I  was 
entombed  alive,  and  you  did  come  to  me. 
You  set  me  free.  You  are  the  dove  and  eagle 
who  released  me  from  the  sepulchre.  To  you 
I  owe  it  that  I  now  look  upon  the  light  of  day. 
Ah  yes  !  you  saved  me,  now  't  is  my  turn  ! 

DONNA  ROSA. 
'T  is  the  old  monk  ! 

TORQUEMADA. 
I  see  by  your  serge  frocks  that  you  are  con- 
secrated to  the  Virgin,  both.  I  find  you  as 
you  were  when  I  first  saw  you.  I  was  not 
alive,  nor  was  I  dead  ;  you  came  to  me,  as  it 
were  two  angels,  from  on  high  ;  you  saved 
my  life.  God,  by  strange  roads,  once  more 
leads  me  across  your  path  to-day.  You  call 
for  help  and  I  stretch  out  my  hand.  God 
stations  Dominic  above  Peter  the  Second, 
myself  above  that  wicked  monarch,  Ferdinand, 
to  watch  them.  I  pass  by  and  hear  your  call. 
You  seem  in  peril.  Are  you  prisoners  ?  What 
succor  do  you  need?  God  places  in  my  hand 
the  means  of  entering  this  palace,  this  unhal- 
lowed den,  to  serve  some  purpose  of  his  own  ; 


I  find  you  here  in  trouble  and  am  not  sur- 
prised thereat,  for  step  by  step  God  leads  us 
both.  You  came  to  me  when  I  was  in  the 
tomb.  Now,  captives  both,  you  tremble  in 
this  baleful  spot.  I  come.  Without  my  suc- 
cor you  would  die.  Without  yours  I  was  lost. 
Your  coming  I  did  not  foresee,  and  mine  is 
unforeseen.  How  came  you  there?  How 
come  I  here?  Your  coming  was  a  miracle, 
mine  is  a  prodigy.  God  knoweth  what  he 
doeth. 

DON  SANCHO  (to  Donna  Rosa). 
Yes,  't  is  he  ! 

TORQUEMADA. 
Fear  not,  for  I  am  here  beside  you.     I  sus- 
pect some  trap.     Recluse  and   monk   I  am, 
but  I   know  men.     I    love   you,  and    I    will 
defend  you  e'en  against  the  king  himself. 

DON  SANCHO. 
Pray,  do  you  stand  beside  the  king  ? 

TORQUEMADA. 
Above. 

DON  SANCHO. 
Who  are  you,  in  God's  name? 

TORQUEMADA. 
Naught    in    myself.       Everything    through 
Christ. 

DON  SANCHO. 
Your  name  ? 


234 


TORQUEMADA 


TORQUEMADA. 

My   name   's   Deliverance.     I  am  he  who 

looks  through  the  transparent  earth  and  sees 

the  yawning  hell  beyond  ;  my  gaze  pursues  the 

frightened,  haggard  demons,  and  I  see,  below, 

the  pit  we  must  avoid,  the  sullen  flames,  and 

in  my  hand  I  hold  the  urn  with  which  to  put 

them  out.     But  tell  me,  pray,  the  names  you 

bear. 

DON  SANCHO. 

Mine,  Sancho,  Infant  of  Burgos. 

DONNA  ROSA. 

Mine,  Rosa,  Infanta  of  Orthez. 

DON  SANCHO. 
We  are  betrothed. 

TORQUEMADA. 
Methinks  you  have  as  yet  taken  no  vows 
save  those  from  which  a  dispensation  sets  you 
free.     But  tell  me  how  it  comes  about  that 
you  are  here  ? 

DON  SANCHO. 

The   king   by  force  consigned    me  to  the 

convent.     So  it  was  with  her.     We  both  have 

fled. 

TORQUEMADA. 

You  must  needs  pay  a  fine.  The  king  will 
pay  more  dearly,  his  sin  being  greater  far. 
It  is  a  crime  to  make  a  royal  prison  of  God's 
cloister,  and  no  person  may  be  forced  to 
enter  there  against  his  will.  You  both  are 
free.  Hope,  Rosa,  Sancho,  hope !  What 
other  wish  have  you  ? 

DON  SANCHO. 
To  wed,  my  father. 

TORQUEMADA. 

So  be  it.     I  myself  will  join  your  hands  in 

matrimony. 

DONNA  ROSA. 

O,  monsenor ! 

(She  attempts  to  throw  herself  at  his  feet,  but  he,  with 
a  gesture,  forbids  it.) 


TORQUEMADA. 
Heaven  to  the  dead,  and  to  the  living  hap- 
piness ;    such  are  the  gifts  I  bring,  and,  calm 
and  humble,  in  one  hand  I  hold  a  torch,  a 
palm  branch  in  the  other.     Be  ye  happy ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
Day  of  joy  !  I  know  not  why,  but,  stand- 
ing by  your  side,  I  cease  to  fear  the  king. 
If  I  feared  anyone  't  would  be  yourself.  You 
come  to  us  like  a  strange  providence.  I  feel 
that  you  are  powerful  and  to  be  feared. 

TORQUEMADA. 
Even  as  Rachel  who  saw  Jacob  and  espoused 
him,  Rosa,  you  shall  wed  with  Sancho,  and 
the  grace  divine  will  foil  the  projects  of  the 
king,  which  I  suspect.  Yes,  I  will  save  you 
both.     Rely  upon  it. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
Oh  !  whoe'er  you  be,  priest,  bishop,  thanks ! 
My  father,  be  thou  blessed.  It  was  a  joyful 
hour,  O  upright  and  holy  man,  when  God 
permitted  us  to  hear  your  cries  coming  from 
the  tomb  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
How  well  I  do  remember  it,  as  if  I  still 
were  there ;  it  was  a  lovely  April  evening ; 
I  was  plucking  roses,  and  she  chasing  butter- 
flies; the  words  we  whispered  to  each  other 
mingled  with  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  ;  night 
fell,  and  suddenly  I  heard  a  cry,  't  was  like  a 
dying  man's  appeal  for  help;  I  saw  a  stone,  I 
listened  .   .   . 

DONNA  ROSA. 
And  thou  saidst :     "  A  man  is  buried  here ! 
Come,  let  us  save  him  !"    But  the  stone,  alas! 
was  much  too  heavy. 

DON  SANCHO. 
But   there  was  an  iron   cross  near  by,  my 
Rosa  .  .   . 


PART  II— ACT  III 


235 


DONNA  ROSA. 
Thou  didst  tear  it  from  the  ground. 

(Torqiicraadci  makes  a  horrified  gesture.) 

DON  .SANCUO. 
Even  so,  I  took  the  cross,  and  certes  't  was 
a  serviceable  crow-bar  ;   thanks  to  it  the  tomb 
was  opened,  and  you  came  forth  alive. 

TORQUEMADA  (aside). 

O  Heaven,  they  are  damned  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
The  while  I  raised  the  stone  she  bore  upon 
the  lever,  and  with  our  united  strength  we 
threw  your  prison  open. 

TORQUEMADA  (aside). 
Ah !  a  cross  torn  from  the  ground !  O 
monstrous  sacrilege  !  Beneath  their  feet  the 
fire,  the  everlasting  fire  burns  !  they  are  with- 
out the  pale.  Great  God !  Behold  they 
have  emerged  from  Calvary's  protecting 
shadow !      Wretched   creatures  !      'T   is   not 


with  the  king  that  they  have  now  to  deal, 
but  God  ! 

(To  Don  Sancho  and  Donna  Rosa.) 
This  iron  lever,  are  you  sure  that  't  was  a 
cross  ? 

DON  SANCHO. 

Most  sure  ;  it  stood  amidst  the  dry  grass  at 
the  foot  of  the  old  wall ;  I  took  it  in  my  hands. 

TORQUEMADA  (aside). 
A  cross  torn  from  its  place  !    A  cross  !     No 
matter.       I  will  save  them. — In  another  way  ! 
(Me  waves  his  hand  to  them  in  farewell.) 
I  will  return  anon. 

DON  SANCHO. 
We  have  no  friends,  we  have  no  place  of 
refuge  in  this  hour  of  gloom.    Our  only  hope, 
monsenor,  is  in  you. 

TORQUEMADA. 
Fear  not.     Yes,  I  will  save  you. 

(Exit  by  the  staircase  at  the  back  of  the  stage.     He 
passes  slowly  out  of  sight  as  he  descends.) 


236 


TORQUEMADA 


SCENE   V 

DON  SANCUO,  UONNA  ROSA. 


DONNA  ROSA. 
Let  us  return  thanks  on  our  knees.  Help 
from  on  high  !  The  Lord  performs  a  miracle 
for  us.  How  swiftly  hope  returns !  is  it  not 
true,  Don  Sancho  ?  And  how  eagerly  we 
grasp  at  any  branch,  however  frail.  The  man 
whose  life  we  saved  is  in  this  place  and  saves 
us  in  his  turn  !  Yes,  I  have  faith,  I  hope. 
Am  I  not  right?     What  thinkest  thou? 

DON  SANCHO. 
Aye,  surely  !  hope,  my  angel !     He  owes  us 
his  life  and  gives  us  ours.     Ah!   my  heart  is 
overflowing  ;  I  am  like  a  drunken  man. 
(He  draws  her  to  his  side.) 
Come  !  come  !  at  last  let  us  breathe  freely  ! 
Oh  !  I  feel  the  shadow  of  the  seraph's  wing 
upon  our  brows  after  so  many  cruel  blows. 
An  open  hand  is  'twixt  us  and  the  stars. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
Yes,  't  is  the  hand  of  God,  who  shelters  us. 

DON  SANCHO. 
Oh  !  tell  me,  hearest  thou  not  the  singing  of 
the  heavenly  choir  draw  near? 

(Pointing  to  tlie  park  and  the  clumps  of  trees.) 
All  nature  thrills  with  sweetest  music. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
When  we  thus  do  meet  again,  all   that  we 
long  to  say  comes  rushing  to  our  lips  at  once, 
— the   past,    the    present,    all    that   we   have 


suffered,  wished  or  thought,  the  many  sleep- 
less nights  we  've  passed,  God  and  his  bound- 
less pity,  and  the  wickedness  of  man.  At 
last  the  heart  o'erflows.  We  say:  "I  love 
thee;"  and  we  realize  that  all  is  said.  My 
dear,  I  have  wept  bitter  tears  !  When  hope 
had  vanished,  when  I  found  myself  immured 
in  that  dark  cloister,  when  I  saw  the  thread 
that  linked  our  destinies  together  broken,  our 
hearts  torn  asunder,  and  the  king's  projects 
vaguely  outlined, — horror  !  I  felt  that  I  was 
strong,  invincible,  affectionate  and  proud, 
and  many  times  I  wished  that  I  were  dead. 

(The   light    of  the  moon    begins  to  soften  the  dark 
lines  of  the  horizon, ) 

DON  SANCHO. 
And  I, — didst  thou  but  know  !  But,  Rosa, 
let  us  put  it  all  away.  The  heart  alone  is 
living,  love  alone  is  on  its  feet.  All  else  is 
falling  to  decay  and  dying.  But  we  are  to  be 
wed,  yes,  wed  and  saved  !  I  place  my  trust 
in  yonder  priest.  He  but  restores  what  he 
received  from  us.  Come,  let  us  live  and  love  ! 
See  the  moon  rising  o'er  the  mountain-tops, 
the  streams,  the  forests  filled  with  one  great 
throlibing  heart ;  and  all  this  loveliness  is  of 
God's  clemency,  my  Rosa.  All  the  sweetness 
nature  lavishes  upon  thislovely  spot  commands 
us  to  have  faith,  and  proves  that  God  exists. 
So  fear  no  more,  my  dearest,  innocent,  half- 
trembling  heart  !  Grief  is  the  lily,  hope  the 
dew.    Grief  oi)ens  its  white  flower,  God  weeps 


PART  II~ACT  III 


237 


in  sympathy  on  high,  and  hope  is  in  his  tears. 

Our  sorrows  and  our  cries  of  woe  moved  him 

to  pity.     Unknown  guardians  watch  over  us. 

I  see  about  us  shadows  who  assist  us.     Wliat 

can   I   say  to   thee  ?     I  love   thee !     We  are 

victors   and   the   perfect    peace   of  the  deep 

azure  vault  of  heaven  steals  into  our  hearts. 

So  let  us  hope  ! 

DONN.V  ROSA. 

Ah !  yes,  I  feel  that  some  one  soon  will  set 

us  free.     I    hope.      To   hope   is   to  be  born 

again. 

DON  SANCHO. 

To  love  's  to  live. 

DONNA  ROSA. 
What  had   I  in  my   mind?      Ah,   yes!    I 
wished  to  tell  thee  that  I  love  thee  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 
Then  come  near  to  me. 

( She  approaches  him. ) 

Come  closer. 

(She  obeys.     They  both  sink  upon  the  bench,  Donna 
Rosa  in  Don  Sancho's  arms.) 

DONNA  ROS.\  (gazing  into  his  face). 
O  Don  Sancho  !     O  my  king  !  how  lovely 
is  thy  face  ! 

DON  SANCHO. 

My  Rosa,  soon  we  shall  belong,  forever,  each 
to  the  other.  Rosa  mine,  how  true  it  is  that 
God  comes  when  you  pray  to  him  !  Oh  ! 
dost  thou  realize  the  meaning  of  that  word 


celestial,  marriedt  Beauty,  chastity,  thy 
sacred  body  and  thy  blessed  flesh, — O  God  1 
the  dreams  I  dreamed  within  the  cloister 
walls!  O  God!  the  ardent  longings  of  my 
sleepless  nights  !  To  be  thy  spouse  !  to  seize 
the  angel  as  she  flees  in  shy  confusion  ! 
Every  instant  to  be  by  thy  side,  to  see  thee, 
and  to  say  to  thee  by  day  and  night  the  words 
that  tell  of  bliss  ineffable;  to  hear  thee, 
trembling  shyly,  say  them  o'er  to  me,  and  kiss 
them  on  thy  smiling  lips  !  to  have  no  other 
burden  and  no  duty  save  to  live  in  Paradise  ! 
And  soon,  who  knows? — nay  Rosa,  do  not 
blush  ! — to  see  a  tiny  creature  pressing  his 
dear  little  hands  against  thy  lovely  breast, — 
I,  still  the  lover,  he  the  master  !  And  to  hear 
him  lisping  with  his  lips  so  honey-sweet  the 
dear  word  :   ' '  Mother ! ' ' 

DONNA  ROSA  (with  an  adoring  glance). 
O   my   best   beloved,    he   will  call    thee : 
"Father!"  too. 

(During  their  ecstasy,  the  top  of  a  black  banner 
appears  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  behind  and  below 
the  top  of  the  staircase.  The  banner  slowly  ascends. 
At  last  the  whole  of  it  can  be  seen.  In  the  centre 
is  a  skull,  with  two  cross-bones,  white  upon  a  black 
ground.  It  comes  nearer.  Don  Sancho  and  Donna 
Rosa  turn  about  and  stand  as  if  petrified.  The  ban- 
ner continues  to  ascend.  The  hood  of  the  banner 
bearer  comes  in  sight,  and  at  his  right  and  left  the 
hoods  of  two  lines  of  penitents,  black  and  white.) 


DON  SANCHO. 


O  Heaven  ! 


238  TOR  Q  U EM  AD  A 


NOTE  TO  TORQUEMADA 


On  the  first  page  of  the  author's  manuscript  are  these  words : 

"  Begun  May  I,  1869,  while  L' Homme  Qui  Rit  was  going  through  the  press." 

At  the  head  of  the  second  act  of  the  first  part,  The  Three  Priests: 

"  As  this  act,  which  is  necessary  to  the  development  of  the  idea,  is  likely  to  be  suppressed  if  the  play  is 
performed,  I  number  it  separately." 

This  act  must  have  been  written  after  the  others,  as  it  bears  on  the  first  page  the  date,  July  ist. 

Act  I.  of  the  second  part  is  said  to  have  been  begun  May  20th  and  finished  May  2Sth.  Act  II.  begun 
June  1st,  finished  June  l6th.     Act  III.  begun  June  l6th. 

At  the  foot  of  the  last  page  we  read  : 

"June  21,  1869.     Forty  years  ago,  in  tliis  same  month  of  June  (1829),  I  was  writing  Marion  Je  Lorme." 

The  author  began  to  write  a  preface  to  Torqiiemada,  but  seems  never  to  have  completed  it.  The  following 
fragment  is  all  that  has  ever  been  discovered  : 

"  Wlien  a  man  who  left  his  mark  upon  institutions  and  events  disappeared  without  disclosing  the  secret  of  his 
conscience,  and  has  continued  to  be  an  enigma  to  historians, — have  the  philosopher  and  the  poet  the  right  to 
search  for  that  secret  ?  have  they  the  right  to  proffer  an  explanation  ?  have  they  the  right  to  interpret  it  for 
themselves  ? 

"  The  author  thinks  that  he  has.     Hence  TorquemaJa. 

"  The  opinions  of  historians  on  the  subject  of  Torquemada  are  not  in  accord.  In  the  eyes  of  some  he  is  a 
blood-thirsty  creature,  by  nature  an  executioner ;  in  the  eyes  of  others  a  visionary,  an  executioner  by  compassion. 

"  Of  these  two  opinions  the  author  has  chosen  that  one  which  seemed  to  him  the  more  philosophical  from 
the  human  standpoint,  and  the  most  dramatic  from  the  literary  standpoint. 

"  Moreover,  in  the  Torquemada  of  this  drama,  the  visionary  become  executioner,  there  is  nothing  which  is 
irreconcilable  with  possible  reality." 


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